


There's No Place Like Holmes

by Dryad



Series: Night Moves [6]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alpha Sherlock, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Can't believe the title hasn't been used already, Graphic Violence, Implied/Referenced Domestic Violence, M/M, NC17, Omega John, Omega Variant, Omega Verse, casefile
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-25
Updated: 2015-01-25
Packaged: 2018-03-08 23:11:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 23,906
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3227033
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dryad/pseuds/Dryad
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock grabbed John by his wrist, holding on tightly. "No, I forbid it."</p>
            </blockquote>





	There's No Place Like Holmes

**Author's Note:**

> Please note that there is a **PLAYLIST** for part of this story! When you get to, click on the linky and turn the volume up. There will also be a list at the end of the work for each title, in case videos get deleted or you decide to listen to them later.

~*~

 

John snuggled more deeply into his cocoon of sheets and duvet. The pillow beneath his head was as soft as the proverbial cloud, the mattress neither too firm nor too soft, holding his body in absolute comfort. He was aware that it was daylight outside, could tell by the street noise that the rest of the world was up and about. Clearing a bit of duvet from in front of his nose, he took a deep breath of cool air. Bacon, coffee. A hint of something earthy, yet not unpleasant. Patchouli, Amber, a hint of Civet. He had smelled it before, in Afghanistan as a matter of fact. Trust Sherlock to have Afghani perfume about the flat somewhere. Hopefully it had nothing to do with John, no regression therapy that Ella had snuck into the marriage contract. God, no. It would be just like her to do that, though.

John contemplated whether or not he really wanted to get up, decided against it. Something thumped downstairs, shaking the floor. 

Or maybe he should get up and investigate whatever the hell that was. He drew the covers over his head instead. 

There was another floor rattling thump.

Alright then, sleepy time was done. Flipping the covers back, John got to his feet, scratched all the usual places, yawned and stretched. He used the toilet, brushed his teeth free of the night-time fug, returned to his room and dressed. Eying himself critically in the mirror, he realized that despite all the running around of the past few days, he looked better. Less drawn. In fact he looked rested and bright-eyed. Given the events of the night before, he was surprised he felt rested, too. 

Hunh.

Cat would approve. 

Habit had him making his bed neat and tidying his room. Which reminded him - he drew the box from underneath the bed, made sure the gun and its magazine were still whole, made a mental note to clean the damned thing of oil when Sherlock was elsewhere engaged. Maybe, actually, after Sherlock had gone to bed, so John could take a late night shower and Sherlock would not smell the oil on his skin. Although why Sherlock should not know he was cleaning the gun after he had already shown this one, and used another was a little foggy, but it seemed important. Oh, no, that was because Sherlock had all the self-control of a two year old. Possibly less. Or maybe it was just because Sherlock was clearly one of those people for whom the very idea of danger was something to be investigated rather than ignored.

With a firm nod to himself, John took the gun and ammunition, folded it into an old and stained tee shirt, then slipped it into the bureau next to the bed. The box went into the bottom of the wardrobe next to his boots. If anyone went walkabout in his room, with luck they would only find the most obvious things anyone would want to keep out of sight. Tasks done, he headed downstairs.

"Oh, good morning," he said, walking into the living room. Mr. Holmes and Sherlock were seated across from one another, Sherlock on the sofa with his violin, plucking discordant notes, Mr. Holmes in the chair opposite. Both were nattily dressed in tailored suits, though Sherlock forwent the tie and waistcoat.

"Good morning, John," said Mr. Holmes, watching him cross the room with a sharp gaze.

John had been scrutinized all his life and it still rankled. Especially given that he had recently killed a man in cold blood in front of both of them. He had more than earned a little credit. 

"I trust you slept well?" 

"Oh he's fine, Mycroft," snapped Sherlock, glancing from John to Mycroft and back again. "You still haven't answered my question."

"I am not beholden to you, Sherlock. Have you not always told me that Government is not your purview? That you have no interest in what secrets it holds?"

"Yes, because that has everything to do with you and no other reason."

Well. John blinked at the sniping. Not…what he had been expecting the two of them to sound like when in the same room together. Mr. Holmes' face was a study in the sucking of lemons, while Sherlock looked equally outraged, with a strong underlay of satisfaction. John might not have grown up with an older sibling, but he definitely felt like he knew what it might like, looking at the two of them. Time for some of that coffee he was smelling. And breakfast. Or lunch, actually. Perhaps a very early dinner, seeing as it was nearly tea time.

"Lemon, one sugar," said Mr. Holmes, staring at Sherlock. "Thank you, John."

John started, did a double take. "Sorry?"

Mr. Holmes, relaxed and perfectly at home in John's chair, looked up at him. "You're making tea?"

"Ah, no, sorry. Coffee. Happy to make you a cuppa, though," out of the corner of his eye John saw the corner of Sherlock's mouth lift, and felt a tiny thrill at the sight. Mr. Holmes' mouth took a downturn. 

"Thank you, I must be going."

"The Government doesn't run itself, right?" quipped John, realizing he had overstepped the bounds a moment later, when Mr. Holmes shot him a dagger of a look. 

"I see I have found you the perfect housemate, Sherlock," Mr. Holmes rose from the chair. "I shall expect you at seven. Do not disappoint. John, good day."

John gave him a nod as Mr. Holmes passed, keeping his mouth firmly shut. As soon as the top of Mr. Holmes' head disappeared down the stairs, he ventured a look at Sherlock, who was staring into space. "Sorry. I would have stayed upstairs if I'd known he was here."

"What? Oh," Sherlock flicked one hand in the air impatiently. "Don't worry about him, I'm sure he'll go eat a cake if his feelings are hurt."

"Right…well, I'll just make that coffee," said John, backing towards the kitchen. He did not want to get caught in the backwash of their fighting, whatever they were fighting about. Searching the cupboards for coffee, he found a cafetiere and a pair of mugs before finding the coffee in the actual coffee tin on the counter. He started the kettle, then took a deep breath and opened the refrigerator door. At first glance there was nothing weird on the shelves, but as he investigated the closed plastic containers on various shelves, he realized they were filled with…things. He was pretty sure there was a tub of stomach contents, and another of algae…maybe. On reflection, he _hoped_ it was algae, because god only knew what else it could be. Really, it did not bear thinking about. Even so, there was milk, and a new carton of eggs and a packet of sausage. 

Over the cracking of eggs into a mixing bowl, sausage already sizzling under the grill, John called, "Do you want anything to eat? Sherlock?"

Silence was his only answer, and when John leaned to look into the living room, he saw Sherlock in what appeared to be his usual position on the sofa: lying on his back, hands clasped on his chest, eyes closed. John squinted, however there was no way to tell if Sherlock was thinking deeply or asleep. Probably asleep. They had both had a busy few days. Though he had felt perky upon rising, now John could feel that he was still exhausted. There was just no oomph to his movements. Normally he bounced back from this sort of action, no doubt Ella would have just said it was a reaction to stress, too much adrenalin and all that. War had a way of making a person stressed, that was perfectly natural. He accepted it for what it was, that his body needed rest and relaxation and food, dear lord, food. Sherlock clearly wanted to pretend he was different, with his 'transport' and 'breathing is boring', but John did not buy it for an instant. And his proof lay on the couch right now.

What he needed was lunch. Having boiled six eggs - food in case they had to go on a moment's notice - he left them in to cool in the pot, John divvied up the sausage and the toast and the scrambled egg onto his plate, brought it over to the table. He grabbed the raspberry jam from the fridge, poured his coffee, adding a splash of milk in the process, then brought that to the table as well. As soon as he sat down he realized he had forgotten silverware, and got up to retrieve it with a soft curse at his own stupidity.

When he turned to go back to his meal, he stopped short at the sight of Sherlock seated at the table, reading a paper - a paper John could have sworn was not there when he put down his plate. And Sherlock was drinking his coffee. Making a face at it, actually. 

"How can you drink this without sugar?"

"Because it's _my_ coffee? You want some, you get your own cup," John said, sliding onto his chair. One slice of toast was missing - no need to wonder where it went, though Sherlock must have inhaled it in the millisecond his back was turned to the living room. Fine. It was fine. He would remind Sherlock not to do that the next time.

Sherlock opened up the front page of the paper while John dug into his sausage. Cumberland, nice. A little too much sage, perhaps, but overall very nice. All his plate wanted was a bit of tomato, maybe some beans - dammit, he was going to have get beans. Running around all hours of the night and day, a man needed protein and carbs and plenty of both. Maybe get some lettuce, too, while he was at it. Still had Sherlock's bank card, and Sherlock had not asked for it back. Perhaps he had forgotten? Unlikely. In any case, after this he would go to the store, pick up the items they needed. Some fruit would not go amiss, either. Apples and bananas, there were good in a pocket and provided good energy, yeah, that was the ticket. Perhaps more cheese, he could cook tonight if Sherlock was amenable.

"There's nothing - nothing!" Sherlock crumbled the paper in one fist before tossing it at John.

John took one final bite of egg, chewed, swallowed. "Were you expecting some big expose?"

"No. But I thought there would be mention of the body."

"I'm glad there isn't," John said, pouring them more coffee. Seeing as they were sharing the one cup.

Sherlock looked at John, brows creased. "You're left handed but you shoot with your right hand. Tell me, why is that?"

"Courtesy of the British Army, mate. Like most guns used in the military, the L85A2 rifle will spit out hot casings into your face if you try and use it with your left hand. Besides, if your weapon is for lefties only, what happens when it jams, or through circumstance you're forced to leave it behind?"

Sherlock looked doubtful. 

John shrugged. "No one's proud of it, but it does happen from time to time. My point is that it's easier for everyone to learn the same weapon in the same way. The majority of parts are for that weapon, the fixes are for that weapon, so on and so forth. You get so used to it that it feels unnatural to shoot any other way. Ultimately you don't want to be int he middle of a firefight, your gun has a problem, but you can't use another weapon because you're used to only using your left hand. A good way to catch a bad case of death."

"Hmm. Can you shoot with your left?"

"Sure. I'm not as good as with my right, though."

"I'll want to see that for myself."

"Of course," said John. He took his plate into the kitchen, washed it and the pans as well. Setting them in the rack to dry, he called over his shoulder, "Do we have plans for the day?"

"Yes," Sherlock got to his feet and put on his coat, held John's out too, shaking it with impatience when John just stared at him. "Come on, John. I think you'll rather enjoy our little visit."

"I'm sure I will once I get my shoes on," John said, taking the stairs two at a time. 

Surprisingly, they walked to their destination. John was surprised to find himself back at St. Barts. With a word at the main desk, Sherlock brought him to Maternity, when he led John to a private room. 

He then stood back from the closed door, lips upturned ever so slightly. "I believe this is your area of expertise, not mine."

John wrinkled his brow, knocked anyway. 

"Come in," called a woman's voice.

John slowly opened the door, leaning in so as not to surprise whoever they were visiting slash interrupting. There was someone lying in the bed, their head and torso obscured by the extremely pretty woman sitting in the only chair in the room. "Hello, I'm John Watson, this is Sherlock Holmes."

"Oh!" She said, standing up and reaching towards him with both hands. "You must be Dr. Watson! I am so glad to finally meet you, it's all Dariush has been able to talk about."

Dariush? John frowned a little even as he shook her hand, because the only Dariush he had known was still translating back in Afghanistan. 

The woman let go of him and turned back to the bed, the swing of her long dark hair scenting the air with spice. "Dariush, your Dr. Watson is here."

Stepping around her, John look and realized it was the man from Bridge End, the one he had last seen being driven off in an ambulance. The man certainly looked a great deal better. Still too thin, but that could not be corrected over the course of a few days. Force of habit had him taking Dariush's wrist, the pads of his fingers resting lightly on his pulse point. "Salaam aleikum, how are you feeling?"

"Wa'aleikumu s'salaam!" Dariush then rattled off something in Farsi, too fast for John to follow. His eyes were bright with unshed tears, but he smiled widely as he spoke. When John did not respond quickly enough, Dariush grabbed his hand and put it low on his belly. "Chav."

Really? John grinned back at him. "I'm happy for you."

"He is grateful you saved the child's life, Dr. Watson," said the woman. Her almond eyes were large and doe like, her lips bow-shaped, and if John thought he had half a chance, he would go for it in a heartbeat. He had the sudden image of her mouth open, lax in the midst of an orgasm and had to feign a cough to blink it away. _Jesus._

"Tell me your name again?" he asked, feeling Sherlock bristle behind him.

"Zohra Nash. I work for the Immigration Directorate. I don't suppose you'd consider working for us? We could always use doctors of your calibre."

"No, he's unavailable," Sherlock said before John could get a word in. "I'm afraid he already has a full schedule."

John raised an eyebrow. Oh really. Sherlock gentled his next words with a sweet smile that John thought might even be sincere.

"I know he would love to work with you if he wasn't otherwise engaged."

In more ways than one. John cleared his throat and approached Dariush again. In Farsi, and then Pashto, he wished Dariush and his child well, hoped their recovery from birth would be swift in painless. After that, he kissed Dariush on the forehead and shook Zohra's hand, ignored Sherlock's card peeking out of her jacket pocket. 

Walking down the hallway past the nurses station, John was inexplicably teary. He was so damned grateful himself, for Mr. Holmes, for Sherlock, for Cat, for his change of circumstance. For himself, as he started unfolding to become the person he had been once more, Before. But better. Not so angry? Or…no, not anger. Or maybe it was, he really could not tell anymore. All he knew was that he was the same, but different, and he could look forward to being alive again. He glanced sidelong - Sherlock was texting, of course.

He glanced at John. "Just seeing if Jo can meet us earlier. We've got that meeting with Mycroft at seven."

John cleared his throat, sudden fear breaking his introspection. "Do you know what he wants?"

"Yes."

Sherlock did not explain further, and John was afraid to ask. Perhaps Mr. Holmes had found him unsuitable after all? Sherlock would not cast him out on to the street…at least John did not think he would. But maybe he needed to start thinking about that, where he would go and what he would do. He had a pension, though he had no idea how much it paid as Thaddeus had received all that information, and John had never thought to ask him about the details. 

They took a taxi to their next destination, which turned out to be Thames House. Inside the lair of Harry Pearce, they went directly to the meeting room they had been in before. This time everyone was there; Tom Quinn, Jo, Zaf, and Ruth, who must have ended her secondment to whatever department she had mentioned when they were at The Hole in the Wall. If she had been telling the truth. About anything. 

"Ah, Sherlock. How good of you to join us," said Mr. Pearce.

John was pretty sure Mr. Pearce was one of those men for whom sarcasm was simply second nature; he did not necessarily mean anything by it. Although he also had to admit that being around Sherlock Holmes was enough for any man to want to turn into a smartarse.

"Alright, let's get started. Tom, break it down for me."

Quinn, who appeared to have some sort of uniform of white tee peeking over the neck of a maroon button down shirt, a tailored black jacket over that, looked at everyone in turn. "We first came across Thaddeus Sholto some years ago, during the Turin Raids. He was merely a minor official then, just a diplomat's aide. Once he went abroad, however, simultaneously the chatter went down while human traffic went up."

Ruth said, "It wasn't until I looked further at the Sholto finances that I realized he was profiting directly."

"I decided to contact Sherlock on the off chance that he knew where his brother was. It was pure happenstance that John Watson was there - "

"Was it?" interrupted Sherlock. "Are we sure Mycroft did not go there with ulterior motives?"

A silence fell as everyone pondered this question. For his part, John was certain Mr. Holmes had had no other agenda. In fact, he was sure of it. "No. Mr. Holmes didn't come to Brighton under any pretense."

John really did not like the way everyone purposely looked at everything else but him, as if he were talking nonsense. "Look, I've met Mr. Holmes. If he were hiding anything when he met Thaddeus and the Major, he would have shown it, and I'm telling you, he did _not_."

"That's very kind of you to say, Dr. Watson. However - "

"However, if John says it's true, it must be," finished Sherlock, glancing at John before turning his basilisk gaze upon Mr. Pearce. "Please continue."

"Zaf?"

"Ruth sent me to the Bridge End rail station when Dr. Watson's name was flagged during an emergency call out. Once I realized what was happening, I brought him in for debriefing."

"Yes, sorry, John," said Ruth, looking not at all apologetic. "I thought it best given our conversation in Whitehall. We needed to make sure you weren't involved in the trafficking as well - "

"Oh please," drawled Sherlock.

" - we're not all like you, Sherlock," she said. "Some of us have more things to worry about than ourselves."

Now that was a low blow. John could tell that Sherlock was mightily affronted at the notion that he cared only for himself. And John had to agree. Then again, it was only too easy to take Sherlock at face value, to ignore everything beyond the abrasive manner and rude pronouncements. 

"The two traffickers at Bridge End have given us further contacts and leads, which we're following up at the moment. I hope to have more information in the morning."

"Have we arrested Thaddeus Sholto?" asked Mr. Pearce.

"His whereabouts are still unknown," said Quinn. "But we believe he's lying low in Spain. My contacts are narrowing down location as we speak."

"The woman at the warehouse, Lila Pritchard, has given us all the information she knows," said Jo, pouring herself a glass of water from the pitcher on the center of the table. She took a sip, said, "Cohen appears to be the manager there. He's got contacts with Sullivan, and may even lead us to higher ups within government."

John kept silent. He remembered Mr. Pearce mentioning Virginia Arthur and Christopher Carr, both of whom wanted Mr. Holmes' position in Whitehall. But if Mr. Pearce wanted everyone to know that, surely he would have mentioned it by now? There had been another, Davis Poole, and someone named Gerald - he opened his mouth to ask, and found himself on the receiving end of a hard glare from Mr. Pearce. He turned his open mouth into a reach for the water jug instead. 

"What about Major Sholto?" asked Sherlock.

"What about him," replied Mr. Pearce, clasping his hands together and leaning onto the table with his elbows. 

"He is no innocent in this matter."

Ruth shook her head and opened one of the folders in front of her. "No, he's not. On the surface he appears to be a regular bloke living off his Army pension, with extra monies coming in from judiciously sold stocks and bonds. However, a deeper search finds hidden accounts in offshore banks where, coincidentally, he spends a third of the year. Not all at once, of course, that would look suspicious. But why wouldn't an OAP go to the Caribbean in the middle of December if they had a time share? No one's going to question that, are they?"

John certainly had not.

"Moreover, he's got the contacts in society and government that Thaddeus doesn't."

"Thaddeus knows Christopher Carr," John offered. "Overheard him talking to the Major about it, one time. And the Major is well aware of who and what Carr does, he tried to warn Thaddeus off."

"Alright," said Mr. Pearce. "Let's assume that Carr is aware of what's happened. Not the finer details, merely that Thaddeus Sholto is on the run and that the warehouse has been cleared out. We can't be certain he's aware of Sherlock and John's involvement, but let's believe that he was aware of Mycroft Holmes being on site. Sherlock, do you know where your brother is at the moment?"

"At home, presumably. His security will be better than yours."

Mr. Pearce's mouth twisted in sour amusement. "No doubt. Zaf, put extra security on Mr. Holmes. Tom, do you have anything to offer?"

Quinn shook his head. "Not at this time. Though if you like, I too will put security on Mr. Holmes. Something he won't notice at all."

"I wish you luck in that endeavour," said Sherlock. "Are we quite done here? We have an appointment."

"I'd like to clarify a few points with John," said Jo, looking at Sherlock.

John checked his watch. "Sure. I'm sure we can spare the time."

Sherlock's eyebrows twitched, as if he wanted to say no, but could think of no reason why to object.

"Alright, Dr. Watson, go ahead," Mr. Pearce nodded at John. "Sherlock, I have some questions for you as well. If you don't mind."

Ah, it was to be a separate accounting for all the facts then. That was fine with him, they had nothing to hide. Jo led him from the inner office to the bullpen outside. She took a chair from a desk and plonked it next to another one, where she sat down and from the center drawer, brought out a pad of paper and a pencil. "You're doing very well, y'know."

He tilted his head. "Pardon?"

She gestured towards the room at large. "All of this. It's not easy, going from ordinary life to Five."

"Well…say rather that it's not an easily broken habit."

Jo looked at him curiously. "You mean, from the Army?"

John smiled. "So what's your first question."

As he had suspected, her questions were more of the same from the previous night, with a little variation thrown in to see if he was lying. Though what the point of lying would be, he failed to understand. He was not a particularly clever bloke, he found lying difficult in the best of circumstances. And he was inevitably found out. 

Nonetheless, twenty minutes later Jo seemed to be satisfied with his answers and he was more than ready to go home. He was hungry, again, and he needed more coffee. How they could stand to work in windowless environs for god knew how long a day was not something he cared to contemplate. As a soldier yes, of course he could spend time in a room like this. As a civilian, as his day job? Good God, no. 

John had just gotten himself a cup of fairly good coffee at the station in the corner when Sherlock called for him. He gave his drink one more stir to dissipate the milk, said goodbye to Jo and hello to Zaf, their escort from the building.

"A waste of time," Sherlock pronounced loudly, other passersby in the corridor immediately outside of Five's headquarters studiously ignoring him. "There was no reason for you to be taken out of my sight, never mind be interrogated by Harry Pearce!"

John shrugged. "You know we have to do these things."

Sherlock stopped walking abruptly, John coming to a halt two strides later. "'We', John?"

Placating him with one upheld hand, John nodded. "Slip of the tongue, nothing more. Besides, when you're part of the Armed services, you get used to thinking as 'we' rather than 'I'."

Behind Sherlock, Zaf locked eyes with John and nodded in agreement. Zaf spread his arms to herd them towards the exit. "Come on, gents, you're blocking the hallway."

Once outside, Zaf threw them a crap salute and returned to the darkened depths of Five. 

"Can we get dinner on the way home?" John asked. Then he noted Sherlock's upright stance and thought about what there was to eat back at the flat.

"We're dining out tonight."

"Oh," John was about to say more, but then a sleek black car with tinted windows drew up in front of them and stopped. The rear window rolled down, a feminine hand with black nails made 'come hither' motions. "Shall we?"

Inside the car was Mr. Holmes' assistant, Anthea. She sure cleaned up pretty. Beautiful eyes, clear skin, waves of dark sable hair, delicate ankles showing under another knee length wool skirt that was, yes, there were gray pinstripes. She wore black pumps on her feet and John could not help but wonder if her toenails were black to match her finger tips. Across from him, Sherlock snorted and stared out the window pensively.

John was a little fed up with Sherlock. They were not married yet, hell, maybe he was going off to meet his doom in front of Mr. Holmes. He was a fully functioning human male, if only a partially functioning Omega Variant. He could look at pretty women if he wanted to, and he had to admit, today had been stellar for pretty women. Between Jo, Zohra, Ruth, and Anthea, he had his pick of stroke material if he wanted. Which he did not, not really.

Anthea was busy on her Blackberry and Sherlock was busy brooding, leaving John free to watch the city go by. He tried to relax by doing a few of Ella's breathing exercises, found himself on the verge of yawning and decided that too much relaxing was not good, all things considered. If only he knew what was coming! He could steel himself, like he had with Thaddeus, protect his mind with thoughts of the future, and what he might do.

After a minute he decided that perhaps remembering what he was like under Thaddeus' thumb was the wrong way to go about it. Those days had been truly wretched. Now that he was out of it (hopefully), he could see how much despair he had been in. Days filled with the routine of exercise and reading, studying and writing. Those terrible heats with Thaddeus and Peter. The…the, the abuse. There, he could name it for what it was. The shame of it, though logically he knew none of it was his fault. The fact that he had presented, and Thaddeus was the one to catch him, not his fault. The desperation with which Thaddeus had tried to get him with child before the Major had insisted upon a medical examination - John had suddenly found himself in a lot more sympathy with his ex-girlfriends after being in the stirrups, invaded by an internal camera - the discovery that though he was an Omega, he was Variant and thus one of the few who did not have a uterus was another source of shame. Even though having a child with Thaddeus was a horrifying thought.

Ella had repeatedly told him that none of it was his fault, and that his reaction to presenting - depression, panic attacks - was perfectly normal. Absolutely reasonable when your whole world was turned upside-down, when everything you understood to be true no longer applied to you. He felt, however, that somehow he _should_ have been able to deal with it. Perhaps if Thaddeus had treated him like Sherlock did, as a person…well. Thaddeus had not. There was no changing that little fact. The truth was that John was feeling less and less attached to his time in Brighton. It was no longer the immediate, daily crisis from dawn to dusk. Sleep was just sleep, instead of an escape from reality. This was good, this was healthy. 

Really, when John thought about it, he could not believe his good luck. Thank _God_ for Mycroft Holmes. John would have to find a way of letting him know how much he appreciated what Mr. Holmes had done for him. Yeah. 

"Stop it," Sherlock snapped, glaring at John from across Anthea. At John's befuddled look, he continued. "You're thinking too loudly."

John raised his eyebrows. Right, he was going to tell Mr. Holmes how much he appreciated being Sherlock's life. Just as soon as pigs flew, apparently.

"Ignore him," said Anthea, not bothering to stop typing. "He's just upset - "

"Anthea!"

John was the only one who jumped at Sherlock's commanding shout. Anthea merely smiled. John would have called Sherlock out on his rudeness, yet he held himself back. Whatever was going on in the man's mind, it had nothing to do with John. Weird, though. They had solved a case, rescued any number of people, not gotten themselves killed. A successful operation, in John's mind. Well, whatever. Watson's, apart from Harry, were known for their perspicacity, their daring, their ability to hold their tongues. When not under the influence, anyway. 

Harry. Should he tell her, or not? He would have to tell Mum and Dad, of course, they should be happy for him, if Sherlock kept his mouth shut. Then again, he had not heard from her in what, four years? Since before he left for Afghanistan, certainly. Oh…okay. Uncle Donald's wake. Yeah, that, that had been bad. She had gone off, and he, fresh from Colchester and cock of the walk, had responded in kind. He would have to apologize. Might as well kill two birds with one stone, right? 

God, he was getting tired of his own thoughts. He wished they had arrived already, to wherever they were going. Even as the thought occurred, the car slowed and turned down a quiet road lined with large houses. No terraces here of any age, thank you very much. The car turned onto a graveled drive, the gate of which opened automatically as the car pulled up to it. A minute later it rolled to a stop, which was great, because the sound of the loose gravel under the tyres grated on John's last nerve. Sherlock was out in a flash. John followed, turned to help Anthea out. She shifted away and John caught sight of a bit of color under her bum where it joined her thigh. She shifted back and it was gone. Reminded him of something, though. Bright pink? Hmm.

She shook her head. "I'm off to another event. Enjoy your evening."

John heard Sherlock mutter something. He looked over his shoulder, but Sherlock was facing away. "Well, wherever you're going, I hope you have a good time."

She gave him a rueful smile. "If only. Good night, Dr. Watson."

"Good night," he replied. Checking his watch as the car pulled away, he saw it was only a few minutes shy of seven. No matter. It was winter, dark fell early. The house was tall, four storeys, with long windows leaking soft yellow light from around the edges of the shutters. Ivy crawled across the front, and iron gates in the Victorian brick walls on either side of the house gave suggested gardens. 

"This is my brother's home," said Sherlock, glancing at his hands, then at John. "John, I…it has been my greatest pleasure to have had your company."

Startled, John found himself with few words to respond as Sherlock struck off for the front door, which opened before he even reached it.

"Brother dear, Dr. Watson."

"Mr. Holmes," said John, brushing by Mr. Holmes and feeling like a bug under a microscope in the process. The foyer inside was much as he expected - expensive, traditional, old money. 

"The name is Mycroft, John. May I take your coat?" 

Mr. Holmes asked the question with that smile that so far had never failed to make John want to run away very fast. John handed it over, noticed Sherlock adjusting his suit jacket in front of a large wall mirror. Gussying himself up, though for what, remained a mystery. Sherlock looked at home, in this hallway with its diamond pattered floor of black and white tiles, the potted palm, the Rajasthani side table. He looked…he looked like something out of a dream. John realized Mr. Holmes was staring at him and turned away from Sherlock, a fine blush heating his cheeks. 

"Please, come join me in the parlour."

The parlour was another masterpiece in English eccentricity, a riot of color and style, yet bound together by utter simplicity. It was the kind of look everyone wished to achieve, yet failed miserably at. Sitting on the long, olive green velvet sofa was an older woman with shoulder-length pure white hair and black eyes. She wore a long sleeved navy dress that sparkled in the low light. Standing behind the sofa, a man dressed in a brown three piece suit, holding a rocks glass with three fingers of whisky in it. John felt decidedly under dressed.

"John," said Mr. Holmes, who was still more formally attired than John, even only in trousers, shirtsleeves, and waistcoat. "Our parents, Violette and Edmund - "

"Sherlock, come give your mother a kiss," called Sherlock's father, his voice the poshest of posh.

"Mummy," said Sherlock, bending down and giving her a peck on each cheek. "Father."

Very rarely did John feel completely out of place, but this entire scene literally outclassed any place and anyone he had ever met in the real world. When Violette raised her hand to him, John dutifully bowed over it. As he straightened he saw the awareness in her eyes and understood immediately where the Holmes boys had gotten their smarts from.

"So good of you to join us, Dr. Watson," she said, her voice just this side of chilly.

John made a split second decision and said, "A pleasure," Because saying anything even remotely hinting that he had no idea he was going to meet her, or come to Mr. Holmes' house, would be a disaster. 

Mr. Holmes handed John a tumbler of…whisky? He said, "I trust your journey was uneventful?"

"The usual," answered Sherlock, sitting down in the chair closest to the blazing fireplace. "And your day?"

"Work is coming along," Mr. Holmes - Mycroft - glowered at Sherlock before he too sat down, taking the chair opposite Sherlock. 

John decided to choose his spot and perched on the edge of sofa, neither so close to Mrs. Holmes to allow private conversation, nor so far as to be impolite. His parents might have only been ordinary folk, but his Grandmother had made sure he knew all of the social niceties, her theory being a person always needed to know what to do in case they got into an accident and the Queen just happened to stop buy and make a rescue. John had always thought that was a bunch of bull, right up until the time he discovered some cultures still preserved the social niceties. Manners had stood him in good stead in Afghanistan. He was pretty sure they might have saved his life one or twice.

"And what is it you do, John?" asked Mrs. Holmes, sipping her drink. The sweet odor of sherry extended across the short expanse of sofa and John was uncomfortably reminded of Harry.

"He's a doctor - " started Sherlock.

"He's a soldier - " Mycroft said at the same time.

In the pause that followed, John said, "It is possible to be both at the same time."

Edmund Holmes came around to stand in front of the fire. "You've fought abroad, then?"

"Afghanistan, darling," answered Mrs. Holmes. 

John managed not to grimace, but it was a close thing. Because of course the whole family would be like Sherlock and Mr. Holmes. Where else would they have gotten it from? "Invalided out, Mr. Holmes, a couple of years ago."

A flash of recognition flitted across Mr. Holmes' face. "Oh, of course, of course."

John refused to be embarrassed. He glanced at Sherlock, who sent him a tight little quirk of the lips. Good to know Sherlock was equally apprehensive, still. John wished he had had a chance to say the same to Sherlock, outside in the half-moon of the drive. He would have said something in the car if they had been alone. Ah well, the moment was long gone.

The silence must have gotten to Mr. Holmes, for he said, "What smells so delicious, Mycroft?"

"Nothing fancy, Father. Cassoulet with bread and salad, tarte tatin for afters."

John had faced many things in his life. Firefights, infection, fistfights, bullying. All that experience meant nothing in the face of the Holmes family's excrutiatingly polite conversation. By the time Mycroft determined dinner ready, John was ready to grab Mr. Holmes' third whisky out of his hands and drink it himself, maybe just grab the entire decanter and go hide in the bathroom until someone told him it was time to leave. Chance would be a fine thing.

Thankfully at table there was only a small array of forks and knives and spoons, a glass for wine, another for water, a pint glass of beer from the Holmes family estate, because Mr. Holmes like to brew his own and would John care to take a few bottles home? **_Beemaster_** , the label on the brown bottle read, with a hand drawn picture of a honeybee in black and yellow.

"Sherlock drew that bee when he was five," said Mr. Holmes cheerfully. "I always liked it, had it framed and put in my office."

Sherlock was studiously picking out the peas in his stew, but John thought he detected a faint blush on his cheeks. Pleased, rather than embarrassed, John guessed. He was not surprised, of the two parents, Mr. Holmes was clearly more fond of his progeny than Mrs. Holmes. At least that was how it appeared on the surface. "I'd love some, Mr. Holmes. Thank you."

"I always hoped one of the boys would take after me, but they had to follow in their mother's footsteps instead."

"Hardly," demurred Mrs. Holmes. "They're very bright, though neither one truly applies themselves."

Mycroft choked on whatever he was chewing, face turning red as he reached for his glass of water. John kept an eye on him, ready to do some doctoring if needed. The moment passed, however, Mycroft turning a simpering smile upon his mother and remaining silent. _Christ_ , and he had thought his family dinners left a lot to be desired. Sherlock spoke only when spoken to, although he and Mycroft were clearly communicating on a different level entirely. Oddly enough, Mrs. Holmes appeared oblivious, while Mr. Holmes eyed them both with narrow eyes and pursed lips. John decided he would attempt to lighten the evening. "Did you save a lot of Sherlock's artwork, Mr. Holmes?

Mr. Holmes immediately brightened, and John decided he liked him rather a lot. And his beer was good, too, a nice chewy brew.

"Yes, I've kept Sherlock's sketchbooks as well as Mycroft's portfolio."

"I would love to see them some time," said John, enjoying Mycroft's glare hugely. Served him right. 

"Yes," Sherlock said suddenly. "I think John would love to see Mycroft's artwork in all its glory. He went through a long phase with pastels."

"But Sherlock, you can't have forgotten your time with portraiture. I _know_ where Father keeps them," replied Mycroft, steepling his fingers above his plate.

"You'll just have to come to the estate," said Mr. Holmes, beaming at John. "The boys haven't been back to the house in years, I'm sure they would take to showing you around."

"Ah, I would love that," though judging by the pinched looks on both Sherlock and Mycroft's faces, he might be the only one who would. Which was hilarious, possibly?

Mrs. Holmes laid her fork down on her plate with a clink, silencing everyone. "You shall come in May, when the garden is suitable. We'll have a party to celebrate."

A stillness fell that had John on watch immediately. He rested his hands on the table, careful not to drip sauce on the pristine while tablecloth. He took a quick look around the table, noted both Sherlock and Mycroft's wide eyes, Mr. Holmes' raised eyebrows, Mrs. Holmes shuttered face, as if she were daring someone to comment. It was going to be up to him, then. "That would be lovely, thank you."

Not bothering to look up from her plate, she nodded once in acknowledgment and calmly buttered another piece of her bread roll. Homemade, and delicious and John wondered if he had just made a mistake, if there was a reason behind both her invitation, which appeared to be unexpected, and why neither Sherlock nor Mycroft had been home for years. Was it them, or her, or all? If he had to guess, he suspected that she was the greatest eccentric of them all, which was saying QUITE a lot right there.

The business of dinner continued.

For dessert, Mycroft served a stunningly delicious warm and sweet apple tarte tatin, over which each serving he spooned a healthy dollop of whipped cream sweetened with sugar and apple brandy. John immediately forgot the name of the brandy, but it certainly was not Calvados. Did Mr. Holmes have a hand in making it as well? 

When dinner was over with, Mycroft brought them to a small office on the first floor. John took another sip of his beer - it really was good - he looked up and noted that the tableau was, once again, straight out of an Agatha Christie drama. Mycroft stood in front of yet another fireplace (how his legs were not roasting from the heat was beyond John), hands clasped behind his back. To his left was Sherlock in a leather wingback chair the color of aged cognac, legs crossed, hands folded primly in his lap, an angel in a dark suit and white shirt. Mrs. Holmes was seated in the other chair, while Mr. Holmes sat next to John. John half expected someone to say, 'I've gathered you here today because one of you is a murderer.'

Mycroft sat down behind the massive desk and began to shuffle papers about. He brought out a document from a folder, checked it over, turned it around to face John and Sherlock. He slid a pen over towards them as well. "Sign and date, please."

"What is it?" asked John. He bent down a little to see the text better in the poor light. One banker's lamp on a desk did not make for a well-lit room. Squinting at the tiny, flowing cursive script, he made out the words 'marriage' and 'binding' and 'perpetuity'. "What the hell is this?"

Sherlock left the comfort of his chair to read over the document. "It's a marriage contract," Sherlock muttered. He glanced up at Mycroft. "You're sure?"

"I have no doubts, do you?"

Sherlock eyed John sidelong. "John…"

"No," said John, his dinner turning to lead in his stomach. He straightened up, pushed the paper back. "I'm not marrying your brother, Sherlock."

"What? No!" Sherlock frowned in confusion. "Mycroft, he's mine!"

"Sherlock - " Mycroft began, shaking his head.

"Excuse me?" John did a double take. "You can just fuck right off, Sherlock Holmes! You're not dogs and I'm not a bone for you to fight over!"

"You can't do this, Mycroft!"

Mycroft rolled his eyes. "Oh, don't be ridiculous, Sherlock. Nothing of the so- "

"You better believe 'nothing of the sort'," said John, using air quotes for emphasis.

 _"CHILDREN!"_ thundered Mr. Holmes, startling the hell out of John. Even Sherlock twitched. "Violette has something to say."

Everyone turned towards Mrs. Holmes. She smiled at them all, and as before, John was unpleasantly reminded of sharks. "Mycroft, that was a cruel thing to do to your little brother. John, I do apologize for not having questioned either one of my sons earlier. I assumed they had discussed the issue with you, a mistake I shall not make again. Now, I wish to say a few things," she held out her hand. "Edmund?"

Mr. Holmes dutifully went to her side, clasping her hand and then standing behind her chair once again. They looked very presidential. "When Mycroft announced his intentions to get Sherlock wed, Violette and I pooh-poohed the idea. Sherlock has never been one to get along with ordinary people, and we couldn't imagine the Omega who would be willing to take on his predilections for murder and other unsavory attentions. John, you are the first one we've had any hope for, and, if I may speak for Violette?"

She nodded, her expression a little less glacial than it had been. Maybe it was the alcohol talking. Either way, John did not care so long as he remained feeling like a person instead of a bug under her regard.

"To be blunt, we like you. Of course Mycroft passed your credentials along to us, along with that video, d'y'know the one, from SKY News?"

Oh dear god, he had completely forgotten about that. Journos reporting on work in field hospitals, one of them had had a handheld video camera. He had been busy with Allen Goodwood's guts, had shoved the cameraman out of the way with a curse. Goodwood had died a few hours later. 

John should have shoved harder.

"Now, on the subject of children - " said Violette in a matter of fact way.

"Mummy!" bristled Sherlock, his face going blotchy with color.

She grimaced and shook her head a little, as if discussing John's private business aloud was of no concern to her. "We of course want grandchildren, by whichever means you choose. Consider it an added benefit just for us. Only the finest physicians will be in attendance."

Sherlock covered his face with both hands. "I would like to speak to John alone for a moment, if you please."

"Of course," said Mr. Holmes. "We'll wait right here."

John followed Sherlock to the door, but Sherlock did not go through it. Instead, he leaned against it, looking at John through his lashes, which should not have been possible given their height differences. John folded his arms and waited, trying hard not to just storm out of the room, out of the house.

"I…"

"You what?" John prompted.

"I…thought…I thought Mycroft had brought us here to take you from me. When I saw our parents, I was sure of it."

That…was…incredibly sweet. But also, what? Mycroft - "What do you mean, about Mycroft?"

Sherlock darted a look at John, looked away. "John, I'm not the best at dealing with emotions, I'm sure you've noticed. You're under Mycroft's protection - "

"As a member of his household, yeah, I remember."

"As you're Variant, hat means he has the power of the law over you."

"What, like indentured servitude or something?"

"No, but you're not far off. Think of it as the same before women got the right to divorce. Before then, everything was in the hands of their husband, even their money should they have come into the marriage with any. That is the power Mycroft holds over you, as if you were a ward of his. But keep in mind, John, Variants don't have the same rights as Omegas born and bred."

"Why not?"

"Why? Why anything! To keep the bloodlines pure? To have a harem of Omegas with no legal recourse? Take your pick!"

"So…he could do anything to me that he liked, and no one would object?"

"Basically."

"Certainly explains a lot," John rubbed the back of his neck. Little wonder Sherlock had been worried. He waited for the anxiety to rise, and when it did not, was a bit amazed. Yet why not? After all, Mycroft may have been holding the reins, but he did not seem inclined to steer John in any particular direction. And Sherlock was either missing or ignoring a major part of the whole scene. "You do remember your mother saying Mycroft was trying to get you wed, right?"

"Yes," whispered Sherlock, pushing into John's space so no one would overhear. "I assume he meant you! I don't know if you even want that, given your experience with Thaddeus Sholto."

Wait, wait, wait. This from the man who had told him they should just have sex before marriage? He was worried about what John felt? John pressed the back of his hand to his forehead - a little warm from digesting a good meal and three too many pints. He was also a little overdressed for the heat of the room. Was he missing something, here? "Just - let me think for a second."

John mentally ticked off what he knew: Sherlock was concerned about Mycroft. Maybe that was down to sibling rivalry, of which there was a great deal. Because alternatively, Sherlock was honestly worried that John would leave…and go where? John was hardly indispensible, despite the great adventure of the past few days. It seemed to him perfectly legitimate, that Mycroft would want him close by, he _had_ saved Mycroft's life. So maybe, Sherlock's obvious paranoia aside Mycroft's offer was legit?

Someone approached - ah, speak of the proverbial devil. John clasped his hands behind his back, recognizing only a moment later that he had fallen into parade rest without thinking about it. Well, you could take the soldier out of the army…

"Gentlemen, are you done?"

"Go away, Mycroft," muttered Sherlock.

Mycroft sighed. "Sherlock, come now - "

"No - "

"It's fine," broke in John. "Just to be clear, I'm signing up for Sherlock, not you, right?"

Mycroft winced, as if the very idea of marrying John was so far off of his radar that it hurt to contemplate. "Yes, yes of course. Now can we just get on with it? Mummy and Father are waiting."

John gave a single nod. He went to the desk and signed his name, watched Sherlock sign his name with beautiful, liquid cursive writing. His own was blunt but legible by comparison.

And it was done. He was now married to Sherlock Holmes. 

John looked up at his new husband, wondering if they were supposed to kiss or something, do the witness thing. Sherlock merely smiled at him, hands in his pockets. 

"John - "

He accepted a new glass of whisky from Mycroft, who was handing out fresh glasses of the same to the rest of the family.

"Slainte!" said Mycroft, raising his glass high. After they had all taken a sip, he placed his glass on the desk before sitting on its edge himself. Stretching his legs out, he crossed them at the ankle and said, "I hope you two will be very happy with one another."

Oh, John was not having that. He said, "You don't need to make it sound like a curse."

A moue of distaste drew the corners of Mycroft's mouth down. "I had to grow up with him, I know what he's like."

Mr. Holmes shook his head. "Oh, Mycroft, that's a terrible thing to say about your brother!"

John took his whisky closer to the door. He really had no interest in witnessing the latest fight between the brothers. What he really wanted to do was go back to the flat - go back _home_ \- and out on the telly and watch something ridiculous like Strictly Come Dancing. SO when he saw Mrs. Holmes approaching, he made sure to gear himself up to be pleasant, because she was Sherlock's mother and in that regard deserved his respect. Hoping she just needed to loo, he moved to one side. Unfortunately she stopped right in front of him.

"You don't seem displeased," she said, eying him up and down. 

He quirked an eyebrow. "I'm sorry?"

"To be marrying Sherlock. He is a very intense person."

John glanced over at the desk, where Sherlock was busy making a paper clip chain. He wrapped it around his wrist, frowned, added more paper clips. "He's quite nice, actually. I like him."

"Then it's good you've married him."

"Well, yes…liking a person should always be part of marriage," he finished, sounding stupid even to his own ears.

"He was always flighty as a child, even more so as an adult. I always thought that was why he turned to drugs," she looked over her shoulder, shrugged. "Now I think I would have just left him as he was, he would have brought himself out of it eventually. Too boring."

Drugs? Really? Sherlock?

She caught sight of his face and shook her head. "A phase, albeit a long one. In hindsight, he always was prone to addictive behavior. I have no idea where it came from, both he and Mycroft have their issues in the regard. Of course, Mycroft is still dealing with his."

John kept quiet. He hardly dared breathe. He wanted Mrs. Holmes to continue on, and if somehow he could finagle baby pictures, all the better. Besides, as he knew only too well, addictive personalities were sometimes the result of how one's environment, rather than genetics. Familiarity with addiction tended to run in families so predisposed, and while he was a bit of an adrenaline junkie, alcohol and other such drugs were not his greatest wish in the world. 

Mrs. Holmes said, "Does my frankness disturb you?"

"Not at all, Mrs. Holmes. As a doctor I hold what my patients tell me in the strictest confidence."

"I'm not your patient."

He conceded the point with a brief nod. "Nonetheless, it's not my place to confirm or deny anything you might say."

She looked at him dubiously. "I sincerely hope you are right, Dr. Watson."

An odd thing to say at the end of an entirely odd conversation. This kind of fancy double talk was not John's style at all, nor did it seem to be Sherlock's. He wondered if Sherlock, for all his intelligence, actually took after his father more. Or maybe they were all fucking with him. Too late for that kind of thinking. Likewise, he was a good judge of character and Sherlock did not strike him as a liar in that sense. 

An hour later, replete with a slice of Black Forest Gateau - Mr. Holmes' favorite, according to Sherlock's soft whisper - and half drunk from all the whiskey, John silently mused upon his great turn of fortune. Or rather, he thought about it for a minute, then was content to sit in the back of the car and watch the lit world of night slide by. After awhile he said, "Your parents seem nice."

Next to John, Sherlock finished his text and put his phone back in his pocket. "No more or less than any others."

"Maybe. Some people are meant to be parents, others aren't fit to raise animals," he sensed Sherlock turning to look at him. "Thing is, most of the time you can't tell one from the other."

"I can."

Surprised by the question that did not follow, John looked at Sherlock in turn, even though he could barely make out his features in the darkness of the car. "Really? Well, I suppose for you it would be easy, you can read people like some people read books."

"A skill anyone can learn if they but pay attention."

"Maybe, maybe not."

Sherlock did not reply, leaving John to think he had been too forward in his opinion. "I liked your parents."

"So you said."

"Sorry, I tend to blurt out whatever thought comes into my mind after a few drinks and dear lord that whisky was gorgeous! What I'm saying is that I know what I want for Christmas if you are so inclined."

"John, how much did you have to drink?"

John waved one hand in the air. "A few? Whisky and your dad's brew? Which is stunning, by the way, you don't need to use any excuse to get me bottles of both."

"Are you drunk?"

"No, no I'm not, just very pleasantly…pleasant. Relaxed," he added, because as the words came out of his mouth he realized he did sound as if he had had a skinful. "Tell me, what are doing on your phone? You're on it all the time?"

"You're going to find out soon enough."

John smiled to himself and stretched out a little. Much better. He closed his eyes and thought about how to ask Sherlock if he could get a job, just small, part time locum work. That would suit him very well until something else could be arranged. Now that he was married, and to an Alpha no less, he was much less of a risk. Especially since he was Variant. 

Silence reigned for the rest of the journey. He dozed until the car stopped. Opening his eyes, he was surprised to find himself not at Baker Street, but at a completely unknown location. Sherlock was getting out of the car, forcing John to scramble to catch up. Police lights threw their surroundings into sharp relief, while PCs milled around doing whatever. The street was chockablock with brick buildings, warehouses probably. John was only familiar with this sort of thing from tv dramas, and he was shocked when they ignored Sherlock, who had ducked under a stretch of blue and white CAUTION POLICE tape. John stopped, unsure if he should follow.

Sherlock did not hesitate. He lifted the tape and said, "Come along, John! There's not time to waste!"

"Oi, freak!" A young black woman strode up to them, the rapid clicking her heels a secondary indication of her outrage. "What are you doing here?"

"Solving your crime for you, as usual."

She assessed John, clearly found him wanting. "Who's this?"

"A doctor, invaluable to my work. John, this way."

Despite the look the woman gave him, a mix of anger, dislike, and resentment, John ducked under the tape, too. He followed Sherlock up the stairs, just in time to hear him clash wits with an idiot, then up to the top floor of the building. Once again, they were ignored by the men in blue paper suits and the odd PC. One or two of them acknowledged Sherlock with a nod, their eyes flicking past John as if he were not even there, which was bizarre. But then, John was getting used to bizarre.

"Sherlock, about time you got here. Who the hell is this?" 

The speaker was a man taller than John with heavily salted dark hair and bags under his eyes. He wore an honest-to-god tan trench coat, charcoal suit and tie, and John suddenly felt as if he were in some surreal dream, because behind the man there was a woman's body on the floor, and Sherlock crouched next to it.

"Detective Inspector Lestrade, this is John Watson. Doctor, soldier, husband," answered Sherlock, who was now lying next to the woman. "Where's the other body?"

DI Lestrade did a double take, forehead creased as he looked at John. "Husband? To who?"

When Sherlock did not reply, John nodded at him. "Me and him."

Lestrade frowned even more, trying to nod and shake his head at the same time, obviously both befuddled and amazed. "So he's why you haven't been around…"

Sherlock made a sound of irritation. "Don't be ridiculous, Lestrade. We were on a case."

That made Lestrade's eyebrows shoot up as he stuffed his hands in his pockets. "Right… Well, don't piss off Anderson. Watson, put on on one of the suits before you ruin my crime scene."

"Anderson's already done that," muttered Sherlock, inspecting the woman's nails.

Something hit John in the chest and he grabbed it reflexively, blue fabric wrapped in clear plastic. He glanced at Lestrade just in time to see his nostrils flare as he sniffed. John stepped back, clutching the package.

"Sorry, mate," Lestrade glanced at Sherlock, leaned in a little. "Is it true, what he said?"

"Yeah, I'm a doctor," answered John, wondering what the DI was getting at.

"No, I mean, he's married? To you?"

"Yes, he is," Sherlock stood, consulting his phone. "Do you really find that so surprising?"

Lestrade had the grace to look contrite. "Oh come on, this is _you_ we're talking about, not Gregson!"

Obviously there was a history between them, but John still caught a flash of uncertainty cross Sherlock's face. He said, "You want me to put this on?"

"Yeah, unlike Sherlock the rest of us mere mortals have to make an effort not to contaminate crime scenes."

"John, don't bother," Sherlock stalked between the two of them and back into the hallway.

Lestrade gave John a part irritated, part sympathetic look. "Next room on the right."

There was a victim next door indeed, one that had John wincing. He or she lay on their stomach, the meat of their back and buttocks and upper thighs exposed to the air. Literally, for they had been skinned. Once again Sherlock was on his hands and knees, peering at the victim's back with a tiny magnifying slide. A couple of men in blue paper suits and white booties stood to one side, both scowling. John himself was grimacing, because the smell was atrocious. "Anyone have any menthol?" he asked, holding one hand below his nose.

"No menthol!" called Sherlock. "It'll destroy any underlying scent on his skin."

"Isn't that the point?" muttered one the blue men. He folded his arms. "Aren't you done yet? Haven't you deduced he died from blood loss?"

"Anderson, do you actually use the eyes in your head or do you just throw wild guesses into the aether?" 

John thought Sherlock sounded genuinely curious. The other man's expression soured even more.

"As opposed to what you do I'm a paragon of scientific enquiry."

John blinked. Anderson clearly meant that as a comeback towards Sherlock, but John, and it appeared he was not alone, judging by the quizzical looks around the room, felt that he was missing some meaning out of the man's statement. No matter how he turned it, it did not make any sense. 

Anderson shrank back as Sherlock approached to loom over him. "Yet who gets the results?"

"Sherlock - " Lestrade started.

Without looking away from Anderson, Sherlock said, "Your male victim was killed in the same room as the female victim, then brought here to be skinned. You won't find bruising under this light as his skin is so dark. Check at the back of the jaw for pressure marks. He was probably already incapacitated due to an aerosol poisoning of some sort, there should be traces left in both of their bloodstreams and lungs. Unlike him, her neck was broken, thus he was the target."

"Fantastic," murmured John. He was aware of Lestrade pausing his scribbling in his notebook, but only had eyes for Sherlock, who was looking at him quizzically.

"You know you said that aloud."

John nodded.

"Lestrade, you're looking for a non-Caucasian male with a slim build, approximately 180 to 200 centimeters in height."

"Tall bastard," said Lestrade, writing furiously.

"Try the Sun Hill estate, I'm sure you'll find him there, first name begins with a T."

"Right," Lestrade sidled past John to shout out the door, "Donovan!"

Sherlock stripped off the purple nitrile gloves he had produced from somewhere and dropped them on Anderson's booties. "Do pick those up on your way out."

Stifling his smile, John followed Sherlock out the door. Before he could follow Sherlock down the stairs, Lestrade grabbed him by the upper arm. John tried to jerk away, but Lestade only let him go after a hard squeeze. 

"John, that's your name, right?" At John's nod he continued, voice low so Sherlock would not over hear, even though Sherlock was already out of sight on the third landing. "You be careful with him. I'll have your head if he falls to pieces, understand?"

Hardly what John had been expecting to hear. Lestrade was giving _John_ the 'hurt him and I'll kill you' speech? 

"John!"

At Sherlock's bellow up the stairs, John turned and started down. On the third riser, as the woman he had met outside brushed past with only the briefest of contacts, he looked back at Lestrade, who was still staring at him. Without saying anything more, John continued to the ground floor, his thoughts in turmoil. A stranger had just warned him off Sherlock, yet Sherlock had never even mentioned the man's name before. More to the point, Sherlock's parents had not warned him off, and why not? Was it because they had thoroughly vetted him? Did they know something about his character that he did not? He could be a total shit to other people….indeed, more than one girlfriend had told him so to his face. Usually just before they hurled a glass or vase or something else shatterable.

Back on the ground floor, he set about searching for Sherlock, only to be informed he had already left. As if on cue, a black car pulled up. With a roll of his eyes, John climbed inside. He buckled up, looked at Anthea - she was typing on her phone. "Don't you ever sleep?"

She smiled, said nothing.

"Are you taking me home? No?" This was getting to be tiresome. And she was being rude. "Are you actually the mastermind behind the British government? Y'know, texting everyone their orders? Aren't you afraid you're going to lose that phone, or drunk text someone, and mistakenly send everyone your secret plans for world domination?"

Her smile grew wider, and then she could not contain herself, breaking out into giggles which turned into hearty laughter. Every time she looked at him she laughed harder, until she was coughing and gasping for breath. "Oh my god, John Watson, if you only knew!"

"I'll take that as a yes, then," he said, smiling just a bit. She really was very, very pretty. He would bet a fiver her hair would be as silky as it looked if he were to run it through his hands. Of course, her hair was a good deal longer than Sherlock's - maybe they used the same product. John bit his lip at the thought, which was so very wrong in all the ways possible.

Somehow the drive was short, and he was happy to get out in front of Speedy's. Before he closed the door, he bent down and asked, "Does Mycroft know you picked me up?"

"He knows everything, John," she answered. "Ta-ra."

Reluctantly he let the door swing shut as the car moved away from the kerb. She was definitely an interesting character. But enough about her. He needed a light snack and some water before turning in for the night.

The front door was open, which made him check on Mrs. Hudson, because no one wanted an open front door in London at night. Sure, this was a nice neighborhood, but why take the chance of criminals and ne'er-do-wells stealing from you, all for want of a locked door? On the other hand it was late, and he had no reason to suspect anything was wrong, so he left her alone. He made sure to lock the door, however. Quietly taking the stairs two at a time, he entered the flat via the living room doorway. Sherlock was seated in the green chair, legs crossed, hands steepled under his chin, facing a dark haired man at…too damned late in the night. They were going to have to talk about this. He was about to call Sherlock's name when Sherlock glanced at him. John was no mind reader, yet Sherlock was warning him off. 

Fine. John turned to head into the kitchen for his glass of water and ended up facing a mountain of a man. That was all he saw before blinding pain struck his jaw, and then the floor smacked him in the face and why was he so damned dizzy? He called for Sherlock, but he did not come. In fact, John was aware of someone picking him up. There was a hard shoulder in his belly and he protested loudly. He was ignored equally loudly. He was tired, and the black creeping into his vision was oh so restful.

John woke up because pain was streaking down - or maybe it was up - from his shoulders towards his elbows, and lightly across his chest. He lay on his bad shoulder, which ached fiercely. He opened his eyes and promptly vomited, tried to spit the taste out of his mouth afterward. And that only made him aware of his tremendous thirst. Even moaning made his head ache, so he tried squinting to see where he was, and if Sherlock were with him. The effort was too much. Focusing was too difficult, but he made himself do it.

The room was partially lit, though the quality of light was oddly coppery, like those tall sodium street lamps that were in the park. He was lying on a very cold surface - metal? It didn't feel that solid, but it was a floor, even though it did not feel solid. Maybe. Slightly damp, too. At least it was not freezer cold, he would be a dead man if that were the case. His hands and feet were tied. Which was a problem, a very big problem. He did have a tiny knife in his boot, which was not at all helpful now that he was needed to reach it. Note to self, Watson, learn how to get out of a tough jam with nothing but your own resources. Assume no one is going to rescue you. 

He heard something rustling behind him, stopped breathing in order to hear better. 

"What about Carew?" asked someone behind John.

"What about him?" said a man in front and to the left of John. His voice was weirdly flat, the acoustics in the room strange. "Leave him where he is. No one suspects and he can still give us a great deal of information. He can be groomed to take over, he always needs the money. Besides, he's more of a believer than Farage."

"Farage wouldn't know an Alpha if one fucked him blind."

"You can't expect him to understand, he's only a beta."

"So's Moriarty, yet he manages just fine."

The person behind John snorted. "Moriarty's a special kind of bastard in his own right. Don't cross him, Len," the speaker's voice became quieter. "People disappear when they cross him. And don't make him angry - "

"Don't make him angry? Are you fucking kidding me?" the words were whispered harshly. "He's a fucking nutter, Ginny! Why you ever invited him into this is beyond me and any sane person."

"I didn't! Thaddeus brought him in, because he's a goddamned idiot!"

Oh _shit_. John tried to breathe slowly. As far as he could recall, he had not met a Moriarty in Brighton. On the other had, many people had been at the party the Major had thrown. It was entirely possible that Moriarty and others in the trafficking network had been there. In fact, it was entirely possible the whole thing had been a ruse, John merely an excuse for the lot of them to get together and hash out the details of their criminal enterprise. The very thought made him sick. In fact his stomach heaved, the last bits of his dinner coming up and out and leaving him with the taste of bile in his mouth and slime on his cheek. Holding back his groan was not an option. Keeping his eyes closed, he feigned being unconscious. He heard nothing for a little while, then over the sourness of his vomit, a wave of Chanel and the click of high heels. Slight warmth - was someone leaning over him?

"He's still out," someone new announced, wine-scented breath adding to the miasma surrounding John. Querulously, they said, "Why do we even need him? I don't understand."

John could not work out how many people were in the room. Two men, one of the original speakers and the new voice, and a woman who wore Chanel. Or a man who wore Chanel, and high heels. There had been a bloke like that next door when John was very young. Nice fellow, favored floral dresses of the Hyacinth Bouquet variety and chunky black heels, always let John run around in his adjoining back garden.

"Moriarty wants him -"

There was the squeal of metal on metal, a door opening? John cracked open one eye the teeniest tiny amount that he could on the floor side. It was bright, but bearable. 

"Moriarty wants who?" 

The voice was sing song and chilled John to the core. He startled when there was a tap to the sole of his shoe.

"Wakey wakey! I can tell you've been listening in Mr. Watson, might as well stop pretending. You'll want to be aware for the next bit, I promise."

When he did not immediately respond, someone put their foot on his shoulder and pushed, rolling John over on to his back. It was both a relief and a new source of pain, because he was lying on top of his hands. Squinting, he looked up and around - ah, a container. He was inside a container, the doors of which was wide open to…more containers lit by unseen lights, and a featureless black sky.

A pale, dark-haired man in a navy suit was crouched next to him, smiling fondly. He rippled his fingers in a little wave before standing up again. "Hail, hail, the gang's all here. Virginia, what do you have to say for yourself?"

Oh yes, there was the woman, the same one Cassie Peters - Ruth - had pointed to during John's interrogation in Whitehall. Virginia…Virginia Arthur. Of _course_. Though why she should be here now was beyond him. Talk about incriminating. Unless, oh, right. His heart began to do double time. There was no way he was getting out of this alive. God- _dammit!_ He laughed breathlessly to himself. Three years of nothing to four days of adrenaline fueled life, only to be taken out at the last minute through no fault of his own.

"I'm fine, how are you, James?"

James tucked his chin against his shoulder and looked at her through his eyelashes. "Virginia, Virginia, Virginia. Do y'know I expected better of you somehow. For a woman to get so far in the UK Cabinet, that shows some smarts. I'm beginning to think you should have stayed in America after all, used your father's contacts to go far. Would you like to be president some day, Virginia?"

John tried very hard to become one with the floor. As a doctor, he had come across mentally unstable people before. Sometimes in the A and E, sometimes in Afghanistan. In the Middle East it made more sense. One saw and did terrible things, it was hardly a shock to the average soldier when one of their mates went off, susceptible minds twisted by the sights and smells of war into something misshapen and just not right. Moriarty was not insane, but behind the tailored suit and the sleek hair he was clearly unhinged. John most definitely did not want to get in his crosshairs any more than he already was, which was bad enough. He hoped that if the worst happened, he would get a bullet to the brain rather than something long and drawn out and painful. He was not a stupid man, he was very well aware the he was not a hero, just an average, every day joe. If spilling the beans lead to a cleaner death, so be it.

"Not particularly."

"I didn't think so. Now, what were your plans now that Thaddeus has shown his true colors? Those being yellow, of course. I wonder if the good doctor has any information for us. Do you, John?"

Nausea spiked as soon as he tried to shake his head. Speaking would be better, because he appeared to have gotten a concussion at some point. "No," he croaked. "No idea what you're on about."

"It's alright, John, Thaddeus isn't here, you can be honest with us."

"Sorry, I genuinely don't know what you're talking about, James."

"Oh dear. I heard you were stubborn. Also, you call me Mr. Moriarty," he walked to the door. "Sebastian, would you come here please?"

John knew of only one Sebastian, and…yeah, it was him. Moran. The same square shoulders, blond hair, manic grin at the sight of John on the floor. Blinking, he forced Moran to turn into one solid man instead of two wavery ones.

Moriarty slung an arm around Moran's shoulders all friendly-like, brought him to John. "I want you think about what we should do with him. There's no limit to the imagination, I'm sure we can find a way to put into service whatever you come up with. Now, Sullivan, tell what you're going to do, since you're taking over Sholto's operation."

Sullivan, one of the two men from before Moriarty entered the container, shifted from foot to foot. "I've contacted Isay, hired extra drivers in Turkey and Albania. I figure once Miss Arthur's got her new man in place, we can move forward as soon as you say. Sir."

"Miss Arthur, hmm. And what about it, Miss Arthur," mocked Moriarty. "You failed to kill Mycroft Holmes and his little helpmeet. Why? What could you have possibly gained by doing that?"

"Listen, James. People like Mycroft don't simply disappear without there being a damned good reason for it. You know what he does, and you know what he's capable of. He's the most cautious man I've ever met, and woe betide anyone who gets in his way once he does decide to make a move."

"But now we have little brother's spouse," answered Moriarty, looking down at John with gentle, compassionate eyes. "For a long time I thought _Sherlock_ was the ultimate challenge - has he ever talked about Carl Powers? No? Too bad. I'm still so very proud of Carl Powers. But Sherlock led me to _Mycroft_ , and it's _Mycroft_ who pulls all the strings and makes us all dance. I'm going to happily change his tune, just you wait and see. Oh no, you won't be seeing it all!"

John looked away from Moriarty. Crowing about killing someone was just in poor taste, in his opinion. He never had been able to join in the hoo-rahness, not after that first month abroad. Maybe it was different if you were not the person patching up those on the wrong side of the triumph.

Moriarty clasped his hands together, intoned, "I've gathered you all here today to discuss the changes in the organization. Sullivan will be taking over Sholto's schedule. Virgi- "

"No, he won't," interrupted a familiar voice. "Sullivan won't be doing shit."

John managed to lift his head, looked toward the door. Thaddeus stepped into the container, the floor vibrating with each heavy footstep. His ex-husband looked different, wilder, thinner. As Thaddeus came into the light, John could see that his clothes were a mis-match of unfashionable brown corduroy trousers, a short sleeved khaki colored tee shirt with some sort of unintelligible tribal logo over a white button-down shirt, black work boots, and topping it all, a black puffy coat. Well, at least he'd be warm, even if he did look like he lived under a bridge.

"This is my operation, Moriarty," said Thaddeus. He drew a gun out of his puffy pocket, but was smart enough not to get too close to Moran or anyone else. "You can take your people and get the hell out."

"Don't be a fool, Thaddeus!" said Virginia Arthur, clenching her fists tightly. "Can't you see who's lying at his feet?"

"Course I can. Hallo, John."

"H'lo," said John, watching Moriarty instead of Thaddeus. He knew what Thaddeus looked like when he was on his high and mighty - actually, John looked back at Thaddeus - yes…definitely high. Screw the mighty. It would be Moriarty who would make the first move, and if he did that, then maybe John could roll away and get to his feet, or, or, or _something!_

"Did you hear what I said, Moriarty? Sullivan's got nothing to do with this at all, I don't even know why you asked him here. Because I can't use the phone, duh."

Okay…that made no sense whatsoever. Or could John have blacked out for a second, missing something stupidly important? It was possible, he kept closing his eyes involuntarily and losing track of what was happening. Hopefully that was not the concussion calling.

Moriarty walked towards Thaddeus, hands in his pockets, hips swaying just so. "Tell me what it is you really want, Thaddeus. The schedule, it's back being yours. Mycroft's chair in Whitehall? I can arrange it."

Now standing next to John, Virginia Arther snorted. "Don't be rash, Thaddeus. Your husband here rescued Mycroft from Cohen's clutches. He's already back in Whitehall, hale and hearty."

"All the more reason for me to discipline him. Here," Thaddeus reached into his back pocket and tossed something at her. "Cut him loose, he's mine to deal with and no one else's."

 _Yes, cut me loose,_ John thought desperately. Thaddeus was an undeserving Scout, and always carried a pocket knife on his person. That discovery during John's third heat had been quite startling, and quite frankly, a few days away from the man and John had forgotten all about it. _Fool!_ Moriarty was closer to Thaddeus now, but Moran still hovered at John's feet. Hopefully he was more concerned with Moriarty's safety than a skinny old woman dressed all in black. She was hardly an _agent provocateur_. She was holding the knife in one hand, looking at it as if it might bite her. 

Moran, still watching Moriarty and Thaddeus, took a step forward in their direction. John waggled his right foot once, twice. Virginia noticed it and looked at him, so he rolled onto his bad shoulder to present his back to her. With effort, he wriggled his fingers. _Come on, woman,_ he silently chanted. His arm was going numb by the time she made up her mind. With a last glance at Moran, who now had his back fully to her, she bent down and began sawing through whatever was holding his hands together. John glanced up at Sullivan and the other bloke, who was edging towards the door.

"Is this nothing but a wretched love triangle?" asked Moriarty. "Are you _jealous_ of Sherlock Holmes?"

"John is _mine!_ " roared Thaddeus. "I got him fair and square - "

Yeah, _right_. A second later relief soared through him - his hands were free. The pocket knife was pressed into his right hand, whereupon he weakly grasped it. Virginia Arthur sprang back into position just as he rolled onto his back, his hands much wider apart than they had been before. His relief was short lived as the stretch in his shoulders was eased. Pins and needles were entering his hands now, and he had desperately tried to show no sign of it on his face. Doing his best to work his hands underneath himself, John stopped concentrating so hard on what he doing to check in with Moran, Moriarty, and Thaddeus. It was not good. Moriarty was now in front and to the side of Thaddeus, both hands on Thaddeus' shoulder. Whispering in his ear like a snake.

Thaddeus shook his head once, and again. "No, no! Mycroft took him from me. If I can just get him back, then I can find an Omega wife to get children upon. Having a soldier is a prize people like you can't even conceive of, and once he was gone, no one wanted to even entertain the idea of signing a contract with me, as if I was some kind of _traitor_."

"Oh…so you blame Mycroft?" asked Moriarty. "How novel."

"If he hadn't shown up at the house, John wouldn't have gone with him! Taking John, a decorated soldier - bringing the papers with him to our house, no less - "

John listened incredulously. The last person Thaddeus had wanted in the house was John. John who was _useless_ , quite _useless_ \- he was hardly going to forget how often Thaddeus had shouted it at him, and he could not believe Cat or the Major or even Peter would forget it, either. For god's sake, the Major had emailed John's particulars to Mycroft - short of bringing a stripper pole into the parlour, they could not have pushed John more at Mycroft than they had. So where Thaddeus had the idea Mycroft had stolen him away - and given that the Sholto's were trafficking in Omegas - the whole thing was patently ridiculous!

"You don't know what it's like to have Mycroft _fucking_ Holmes come in to your house, take your Omega, and then have his little brother flaunt him around town like a brazen harlot," spat Thaddeus. He waved the gun at Moriarty and Moran took several quick steps forward. "You know what people said to me, my _friends?_ They took the goddamned piss, that's what they did. For some reason they take great pleasure in doing that, alway have."

"What happened then?" Moriarty said, stepping back to spoon along Thaddeus' outstretched arm. He shaped his hand like a gun, pulled an imaginary trigger.

"They wondered where my Omega was, why he wasn't with me, but John never liked coming outside the house, did you, John? He liked the garden, and the exercise room and reading in the library. John never cared about leaving the house, he was injured in Afghanistan, y'know."

That was enough. Over the days that John had been with Sherlock, Thaddeus had become completely delusional. Rocking a little side to side, John slid one hand almost all the way out to his hip. Moran and Moriarty hopefully would not notice, and then John could do…something…to get himself out of the situation. Then Thaddeus shouted, and John froze.

"You! Where do you think you're doing? No one told you to move!"

"S-s-sorry, I've got to go home, I've got to go!" said the man who had been quietly going for the entrance of the container.

"Nelson," whisper-shouted Sullivan, the tendons in his neck standing out as he gestured sharply towards the man. "Get the fuck back here!"

"A much wiser decision than running," drawled Moriarty, stepping away from Thaddeus. "Sebastian, is there anything you'd like to add to this conversation?"

Moran shook his head.

"I don't give a fuck what Moran thinks," rasped Thaddeus, waving the gun at Moran. "And you, Nelson, get back over there!"

"If you're not going to shoot someone soon," said Moriarty, turning his back to John to stand next to Moran. "I'll have to get Sebastian to do it for you. And we'll probably start with Virginia, oh, I do apologize, _Miss Arthur_. And then move on to John, and I'm afraid that's like to get rather messy."

"Piss off, you little shit," snarled Thaddeus, now pointing the gun at Moriarty. "I'll kill _you_ before I let that happen."

"Nelson!" whispered Sullivan.

John tilted his head back to see what was happening - oh, that was not good. Nelson was going for the door again.

"Stop, stop right there!" cried Thaddeus. He bared his teeth and pulled the trigger.

When Nelson cried out and fell to the floor, Moran and Moriarty rushed Thaddeus. As they struggled to get their hands on the gun, forcing Thaddeus' arm up, John rolled to his side and got onto his hands and knees, then staggered to his feet, cutting the bindings around his ankles in the process. Nausea immediately threatened to unman him, which was not right, he should be feeling better by now, not worse, and that meant something important. 

_john, you've got a concussion_

John blinked, looked up and around.

_kill them_

"Wha…?" Who the hell had said that?

_kill them before they kill you, or worse_

The imperative was so strong he could not help but obey. He watched what he was doing from a place far inside himself, his vision all funny, as if he were looking at the scene through a tunnel. As if he were playing a video game, one of those shoot 'em up's Billy had been so fond of. With absolutely no feeling of danger or fear, he lurched towards the struggling threesome, noticed Sullivan waiting his chance to get into the action. For a moment he thought Sullivan was going to run, but instead the man joined Moran and Moriarty in subduing Thaddeus. Then he himself waded into the fray, plucking the gun out of Thaddeus and Moran's joint grasp as easily as picking up a bone china tea cup. Without aiming, he turned the gun sideways and pulled the trigger - _left handed_ \- watched Sullivan's jaw disappear in a shower of blood. He felt sharp stings strike his face, in the time dilation saw an entire molar aim for his eye, the trajectory changing at the very last millisecond as he sooo sloooowly moved back. 

Sullivan dropped.

_kill them all_

John squeezed the trigger twice more in rapid succession - Moran pulled away as if by a comedian's shepherd's crook, his eyes wide with surprise. Before John could fire again, Moriarty pushed his arm up over his head, then shoved Thaddeus aside before dashing for the entrance. Recovering his balance was too tough for John. He slammed back into his body just as Thaddeus wrenched the gun out of his hand, turning and leaping out the door after Moriarty. John heard shots fired, and then all was silent save for the thudding of his own heart.

At his feet was a dead man,Sullivan, and Moran, who was gaspin g but not moaning, both hands pressed against his belly as his blood steamed and pooled on the floor. John really should do something about Moran. 

Alright. Time to be a doctor. 

John awkwardly knelt, attempting not to fall in the process as his depth perception was still occasionally very off. There was a smell in the air now, not a good sign, of blood and bile. Carefully opening Moran's button down shirt, John pulled up the bottom of Moran's vest, prompting another swelling of dark velvet blood. The entrance wounds were tiny, two little holes from which blood flowed. 

Well. John realized there was not going to be a lot he could do until help arrived, and he was the only person who was going to be able to find help. Which reminded him that Moriarty and Thaddeus were still out there, and he should try and do something about that, too. Kneel-walking to Sullivan, who was noisily sucking air through the shattered remains of his jaw and neck directly into his windpipe. Good thing he had become inured to that sort of thing in Afghanistan. John searched the man's trouser pockets for a phone. When he found it, he gave a little hiss of triumph to see it was only locked, and not with a password. He dialed 999.

Motion caught his attention as he spoke to the operator, requesting ambulances and police. On a whim he asked for that detective who had threatened to kick his arse, Lestrade, before putting the phone on the floor, the operator's voice fading to a tinny whine. 

"Sorry," said Virginia Arthur, shaking her head as she sidled along the far wall of the container. "I can't be found here."

"You know where we are - you can tell the police, they'll get here faster."

She shook her head again, moving more quickly now that she was closer to the door. "No, I'm sorry."

"A man's _life_ is at stake!" shouted John, putting one hand to his skull, closing one eye as his head pounded in pain. Christ, maybe he just had a really bad migraine? "You're just going to run away? Just like that?"

"I'll do more good out there than in a prison cell," she said. At the door she paused and looked back at him. "Forget I was ever here, or I'll make _your_ life a living misery."

And then she was gone. John stared at the rusty orange container visible through the open door. He was torn between staying with Moran and making sure he had a way of protecting himself should either Moriarty or Thaddeus return. Thaddeus might kill him just out of spite, at this rate. Moran gasped and flailed, bringing John's attention back to him. What John would give for a weapon or a simple lookout could be measured in the beat of his heart, his constant glances up, the strain as he listened heard for rapid footsteps. There was no one but him, however, so he held Moran's hand and told him everything was going to be alright, that he was a doctor and he knew these things, and that help was on the way.

Which it was, far more quickly than he would have ever suspected. Sherlock's Detective Inspector showed up an hour into John's interview, looking exasperated and annoyed. John immediately decided he would never ask for Lestrade again. He had had enough of people being pissed off at him, and really, adding a copper to the mix just was not on.

Lestrade shoved his hands in his pockets and said to the DC in front of John, "Jones, I think he's given you the essentials."

Because yes, how much longer was John going to have to stand there and repeated different iterations of the same information? He had been assaulted and kidnapped, threatened with more than one gun, he had a concussion. He had called the police, for god's sake, what more did they possibly want?

Jones gave John the once over, lips pursed tight with frustration. She flipped the cover of her reporter's notebook closed. She nodded at the card John was still holding, said, "Come in as soon as you're able."

"Come on," said Lestrade. "I'll drive you home. Unless you want to go to hospital first?"

John shook his head, regretted it almost immediately. "They'll just put me under observation, and Sherlock can do that for me well enough," as soon as he said it, he realized he had not even thought about Sherlock for hours.

"He's fine," Lestrade held up one hand. "Took out two blokes trying to get to you, but you were driven off before he had a chance to get downstairs."

"So he's alright?"

"As much as he ever is."

That was good. Still, he felt a little weird about it. It _was_ good that Sherlock was fine…it was just that John felt…disappointed? Surprised? A mix of emotions that he could not quite put his finger on. Anxiety, about what, was also a mystery. He wished he could sleep on it, but concussions and sleep were not good to mix, so he faced a night of atrocious tv. On the other hand, he could catch up on his poker strategies, if they still showed that sort of thing.

Lestrade kept his word and brought John home, even going so far as to ensure he got inside and up the stairs. With a cheery-bye he left John and Sherlock standing in the living room, staring at each other.

Sherlock broke first. "Paracetamol?" 

"Yeah," John slowly walked to his chair, sat down. God, despite the throbbing in his jaw, he felt better already, just being at home. "Just a wee bit of water, ta."

Sherlock must have had it to hand, because he was at the side of the chair only a few seconds later. "The headache is the worst part."

"Yes, yes it is," John took the proffered glass and pill, swallowed quickly. He let his head fall back, closed his eyes as Sherlock plucked the glass out of his hand. "It's good to be home. Oh god, I've just remembered I'm supposed to rest my brain."

"I doubt you'll find that difficult," murmured Sherlock.

"You're funny," said John, smiling ever so faintly to himself. He heard Sherlock sit on the sofa. "What I mean is that I can't watch tv or read a book, and I'm still too jazzed to go to bed even though that is the one thing I really, really _really_ want to do."

"In that case, tell me everything."

A few days later, John was restless. He wanted a case, or work, or something. He wanted for movement, action, danger. He laid down Marmion (who would have figured Sherlock loved Sir Walter Scott's epic poetry?) on the arm of the chair he had come to consider his own and popped up to see what he could make to drink. Walking to the kitchen, John put his hands on his hips and arched back into a good stretch. For god's sake - what the hell was wrong with him? He didn't feel ill - could he be getting ill? Maybe that concussion was giving him those long term aftereffects he was always warning parents about.

Hmm, tea, coffee, leftover chardonnay Mrs. Hudson had left behind the previous evening, a nearly empty bottle of water - no, no, there was something in it that appeared to be moving under its power. At least there was more than enough food in there, for once. Sherlock must have had Mrs. Hudson do the shopping. Which was fine. It was, in fact, quite convenient, even if she had gotten Caerphilly instead of Cathedral City cheddar. John sighed and closed the refrigerator door. He had to find something to do. A walk, maybe? A run? No, unless Sherlock was going to amuse and appall him by pointing out other people's secrets, he couldn't be bothered with leaving the flat. He could do some calisthenics up in his room, and then afterwards a bath and a different book? The thought of being surrounded by all that water, touching his skin - oh, oh yes. 

"Your heat is coming on."

John shied to one side, still startled by how easily Sherlock could creep up on him. Even though it was obvious what he was doing, he could not help but try and cover his reaction. His face flamed and he had to turn away, searching the cupboards for, for, yes, Jacobs, he could eat cream crackers.

"Your father-in-law turned a blind eye to the abuse you suffered at the hands of his son."

Okay. So they were going to do this. "Yes, yes he did," John stammered, clutching the packet of crackers and backing into the corner as Sherlock loomed.

"Why you persist in believing it was your fault is beyond my comprehension."

Obscurely ashamed, John turned his back to Sherlock. Putting the packet back in the cabinet with shaking hands, he found he couldn't do any more than stand there, breathing shallowly just like Ella had told him not to do. "When you're in the thick of it, it's hard to put into motion the things you know you ought to do." Especially when you knew no one, and had no place to go. His parents had not been an option, and using Harriet for support was right out of the question.

Sherlock must have felt awkward, for he repeated, "Your heat is coming on."

"Oh, right," said John, facing Sherlock again. Everything coalesced and god, of course.

"How could you not know?" Sherlock gestured wildly. "Omegas always know!"

"Well I don't," answered John shortly. He moved to get around Sherlock, who moved as well, blocking him against the counter. "Thaddeus kept track of everything. He said - "

"'He said'," sneered Sherlock. "You're a doctor. Surely it wasn't beyond even your simple capacity to make a chart!"

Forgetting himself entirely, John shouted back. "I couldn't! I wasn't allowed paper, a pen! Most days I wasn't even allowed out of the fucking house! Don't you understand what life is like for an Omega Variant? It's shite, absolute shite!" Not the words he had ever expected to say aloud, and certainly not to his second husband - Jesus, married _twice_ now…

"There are means and methods, Jo-"

Anger came back with force. "Why did you even want to marry me, Sherlock? Can you even give me one reason beyond shagging me while I'm stupid with heat?" While Sherlock stood there, struck dumb by John's ferocity, John pushed past him to get his jacket. "I'm going out."

"You can't."

"Yes, I _can_ , I _will_ , and I _am_."

Sherlock grabbed John by his wrist, holding on tightly. "No, I forbid it."

John swung around to face him, stared at him open-mouthed. "You what?" 

"John," Sherlock's mouth worked for a moment before he tried again. "John, you can't. You go out there, smelling like that, and you won't be coming back, not as you are, not for days, maybe not ever."

Then it was John's turn to be struck dumb, realizing what he had been about to do. He watched Sherlock draw closer, until he was drawn into Sherlock's mercury eyes with their flecks of green and blue and hazel. His heart began to race for an entirely different reason, because Sherlock was fragrant with the scent of fresh wood and deep earth, a hint of warm spice and a touch of copal. On top of that, the expensive hair products and sandal soap he favored when he lounging about the flat in pyjamas and robe, the faintest whiff of chemicals and laundry detergent. John licked his lips to moisten them, saw Sherlock track the trace of his tongue.

"I've never met an Omega like you," Sherlock said. The timbre of his voice was very low, and very soft, just on the verge of a whisper.

"What, never?"

"No, never."

John waited, looking at Sherlock's pulse beating in the hollow of his throat. "I'm just a Variant."

"Marriage has not ever been in my life plan. I've always left that to Mycroft, to get the heir and the spare. He'll do it for political reasons, no more or less. Which leaves me, in case it all goes wrong."

"Thanks, I think?"

Sherlock traced the tendon in John's neck with his thumb. "Yet here you are."

John had no idea what was going on inside Sherlock's head. His trousers were becoming a little uncomfortable, and he wondered if Sherlock would maybe be amenable to a kiss.

Sherlock slowly leaned forward and nuzzled John's neck. "Do you know what you smell like, John? Did your husband ever tell you? Do Alphas follow you on the street, panting after you like dogs? Do they touch you up at the grocery store, bump into you on the Tube, hold your arm while alighting from taxis, hmm?"

_Jesus Christ!_

"You smell like newly mown hay in the height of summer, of good salt and bread fresh from the oven."

If this was Sherlock in full on seduction mode with him, John could not imagine anyone else turning him down, ever, for anything.

Sherlock murmured, "I _do_ want you, John Watson. If you want children we'll find a surrogate, or adopt. I am otherwise not interested in adding another person to this marriage."

Shocked, John jerked back, staring at Sherlock, who was doe-eyed and soft around the mouth. "You…like children?"

"Not the annoying ones, naturally."

"And you'd be willing," John swallowed hard, because he had to make sure he understood what Sherlock was saying. He had to hold Sherlock to this. "You'd be willing to use a surrogate?"

Sherlock frowned. "Of course. Even if you did have a uterus, I'd not risk you. I know you can produce ovum. I know, I've checked. Well, Mycroft checked, the nosy bastard."

John felt a little faint. "Of course."

"We're agreed, then. About the surrogate."

"Ye-es," said John. The familiar foggy need of heat was more apparent, now, with Sherlock standing so close. It was reminiscent of being around Thaddeus, when Thaddeus had finally deigned to put in an appearance at the start of John's heats. But Thaddeus had never smelled so delicious, had never made John feel anything except distressed and completely out of control.

"Good," Sherlock straightened, turned and reached for the refrigerator door, where he retrieved a bottle of water. Without another glance at John, he gathered a box of slides, a new petri dish, and several long swabs still in their paper wrappers and retreated to his microscope and current experiment. 

Stunned, John nearly dropped his jacket. Where they not - no, really? He stood still for long seconds, then went back to his chair. He could do this. He could wait until Sherlock decided he was ready for sex. Because John was pretty sure he was good to go. Or at least close enough to it to enjoy the process. 

How was it possible he had never thought about the life of an Omega Variant before he had become one? It was an appalling oversight. Granted, Omegas and Alphas had their own medical clinics and, as he had found out, their own therapists and schools and such, yet how had it never occurred to him to investigate on his own - just in case? Like him, those who presented in the Armed Forces were cashiered out, because nobody wanted Omegas going into heat at inopportune times. Funny, he had been all for Omega rights Before, since he had not truly understood the issue. After? _Fuck_ no. Rights were well and good, but in this particular case Omegas really were putting their own lives in danger. There were easier ways to commit suicide. And suppressants, though wildly popular in fiction, did not actually exist, though for the love of all that was holy he certainly wished they did. He had to stop thinking about it. He took his book and said, "I'm going to bed. Good night."

Only a few hours later, dread pooling in his belly, John knocked on the door, one hand balled into a fist and the other trembling on his thigh. "Sherlock? Sherlock, it's me."

John blew out a shaky breath, looked back towards the kitchen. Only one lamp above the sink was on, just enough to spill a semblance of light into the short hallway that led into Sherlock's room. Where he really hoped Sherlock was doing whatever, because his heat had come on full strength after he had fallen asleep. 

He was gazing blindly at the door when it opened, leaving him staring at the white shirt Sherlock wore instead. So bright it almost glowed a little. John looked up, hoping Sherlock could see the desperation in his eyes, his face, his entire being. He said, "Sherlock."

Sherlock said nothing, merely stepped to the side to allow John into his room. Which was much tidier than John would ever have suspected. Clean, masculine, unfussy. Charcoal duvet with subtle self-pattern, blindingly white sheets, a closed book with a scrap of paper clearly used as a bookmark sticking out between gilt edged pages on top of the duvet. A Japanese print above the neatly made bed - a certificate? Lit display cabinets filled with…things. Portraits of Poe and Mendeleev on the walls, a very angular periodic table, a pricey stereo system playing something [soft and electronic](http://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLCKcnrBehc_yablTo5zzyi2gayIlyy0wE) and it could be either pretty or annoying, depending on one's mood. He took it all in with one sweeping glance before turning to see what Sherlock was doing. Which was closing and locking the door.

Sherlock approached John, unbuttoning his cuffs. "You're light sensitive, you always have been. Prescription sunglasses when you were a very young child, and as you grew older you decided they weren't worth the bullying. This sensitivity was an advantage in Afghanistan, where the light pollution is much less. An advantage greatly appreciated by your unit. When you presented you became even more light sensitive, to the point where you would prefer to be indoors on the occasion. Objects such as my shirt may even seem incandescent. Your hearing is also much more heightened, you'll have to tell me how you manage. Should I turn off the stereo? I should turn off the stereo," Sherlock darted around John and the music stopped abruptly.

"It's alright!" John blurted. Befuddled that now, of all times, Sherlock was trying to be considerate. "It's fine. The music's fine."

Sherlock turned on the music again, came back to stand in front of John, starting on his shirt's placket while he spoke. He could have been reciting numbers from the phone book for all that John understood what he was saying. Frankly, all he could concentrate on was the warmth of Sherlock's skin as his chest was revealed, the air becoming more and more redolent with his fragrance. John licked his lips, because yes, he needed this, though the prospect also made him nervous.

Sherlock paused, then slowly removed his shirt, draping it on the end of the bed. "Now you, John."

"Hmm? Oh, right," said John. He pulled the jumper off over his head and began to unbutton his own shirt. One of his favorites, actually, a simple red check on buff. A good thing he was, they were, damn, even when he was drunk things were less difficult. Then Sherlock's hands had joined in, moving buttons through the holes because John was fumbling like an idiot.

"Was it very difficult, with your ex-husband?"

John wavered on his feet when Sherlock touched one finger to his nipple, circled it with the slightest pressure. "Oh god. Um, it wasn't like this."

"No? What was it like, then?"

"Um…" John swallowed, wished he had thought to get a glass of water while in the kitchen. It was so hard to think while Sherlock was…exploring, revolving around John as if he were John's own moon, which was funny, because it was completely the reverse. No, he had stopped - Oh, he was waiting for John to continue. Closing his eyes made Sherlock's light touches against his sides, down his spine, skimming across the top of his arse just above his belt - made it worse, for they became even more of a distraction. Painful lightning streaked through his scar - John flinched, Sherlock moved on. John looked up at the ceiling and began to speak. 

"Thaddeus was the kind of Alpha you see in the movies and on tv, y'know, more manly than ordinary men, able to impregnate Omegas with a single thrust. Big Alpha cock, it's one of those things no one ever really talks about - "

" _I_ can talk about it, if you like."

Looking over his shoulder, John risked a glance at Sherlock, whose lips were slightly quirked. The bastard. Not even bothering to look at John because he already knew the effect that deep, dark, delicious tone had on him. "No one ever thinks about big Alpha cock until you're on the receiving end of one, until it's staring you in the face."

And John had never really had a chance to talk to anyone about it anyway. He had presented, had been…Thaddeus had come across him in the hallway, and then he had been excised from his unit and the army like a festering wound. It had been England after that, right into Major Sholto's mid-row Georgian terrace. "Ella said that if Thaddeus hadn't taken me to Brighton, I would have gone to Seagate Hospital."

"Yes…" 

Sherlock's voice rumbled from behind John. Sherlock pressed his lips to the back of John's neck and he shuddered from head to toe. Already this was so much better than being with Thaddeus and his blunt instrument of a penis. He hoped Sherlock's was more manageable, or at least something he might actually be able to get his mouth around, if Sherlock allowed it.

"Seagate Confinement Hospital, in Barrowham, Norfolk. Incidentally, also home of Seagate Prison."

"Where all unmarried Variants go. I found an old book about Seagate in the Major's library," said John, tilting his head to one side so Sherlock could sniff to his heart's content, shivering as his breath passed over the tiny hairs on his skin. "Seagate sounds horrible…" 

Admittedly, the pictures in the book had been from the Victorian age, but still. He could just envision the same tiny cells, whitewashed for the new age, ill-lit and poorly ventilated, never mind the heating. In hindsight, he had been living a life of luxury in Brighton. 

Sherlock abruptly stepped away. "You would have learned what your options were, as a Variant."

"Yeah," breathed John, aware that he was shaking. Sex before Thaddeus had been fast, slow, loving, funny. Sex after Thaddeus had been uncaring, cold, merely the fulfilling of a biological imperative. Maybe Sherlock would be different. So what to do now that they were both shirtless. Slickness between his buttocks made him loose in the knees, hazy with lust. He wanted to prostrate himself on the floor and beg. He wanted Sherlock to fling him down and fuck him into a stupor. He wanted kisses and touches and laughter. Instead, he stood rooted to in place, watching the play of Sherlock's long back muscles as he turned down the bed. A thought occurred. "You have amazing restraint."

"For an Alpha?" Sherlock rearranged a couple of cushions and then sat down, reclining against the headboard and crossing his ankles. His clasped hands at his waist only emphasized the size of the bulge at his crotch. "Hardly. Now come show me what you can do."

 _Oh_. Years had passed since there had been an opportunity to touch another human being in a sexual manner. Thaddeus had only been interested in his own cock, his own pleasure. Fact was, John missed connecting other people, even if only momentarily. Thank god Thaddeus had not been inclined to bond. Because for all that he was Alpha, Thaddeus wanted a female Omega. Given the society the Major socialized in, John would have thought Thaddeus would have a male Omega as the mother, but no. His own mother had been female, he wanted the same for his children, even though the prestige was far lower. A common manner of birth, might as well have a Beta for the birthmother, that was what some people thought.

The most hilarious part was that John had not even realized how rejected he felt until Thaddeus had started bringing potential mothers to the house. He was good enough to be someone's mother, he _was_. Which was ludicrous, because there was no way in hell he would have ever wanted a child with Thaddeus Sholto. Of course, the risk to his own person would have been high - no one with any smarts would assume Thaddeus would bring his Omega to the hospital for the birth. 

"John."

"Right," John roused himself from his depressing train of thought and went around the bed. He slid onto it from the other side. He was nervous. What did Sherlock expect? Being with a new lover usually brought anticipation and laughter, not hesitation and ineptitude. Then again, Sherlock was thrumming with energy, moreso than usual. It was there in the constant flaring of his nostrils, his widened eyes, the air rushing through his nose as he breathed. Oddly enough, that calmed John down a little.

Where to start? A kiss on the corner of the mouth? Yes. He did, a light peck and suck which he hoped promised more. Sherlock twitched, as if to capture his mouth, but John was already moving on. 

Maybe there? Yes, _there_ , at the junction of Sherlock's neck and shoulder. He lipped the skin a little, tasted it with his tongue. Sherlock's skin was ever so much warmer than John would have guessed the day they met. Shifting closer, he twisted enough to support himself with one hand on Sherlock's other hip while he kissed those glorious collarbones. A good way to keep track of Sherlock's breathing, which was already coming short. 

Sherlock's eyes were half-lidded, and though he was not looking at John, John knew all of his interest and intellect was focused upon him. Turning Sherlock's head toward himself with the slightest press of his fingertips on the other side of Sherlock's jaw, John gave him dry little kisses on his lips until Sherlock's mouth opened under his. A second later he retreated, pondering where he wanted to go next. There was so much of Sherlock to see, acres of pale skin to be marked by John, if he was allowed.

He needed more. John dared sling one leg over both of Sherlock's to sit across his thighs. He loved this position when sleeping with women, although they were always on his lap rather than the reverse. He liked being about to kiss them and touch them in all the intimate places at the same time. Though every woman was different, and occasionally all his work was to naught, his absolute favorite thing in the world was to have a woman shake to pieces in his arms, clenching hard around him. 

_Repeatedly_ , if he could manage it.

Not something he had to worry about during heat. Yet he still wanted it to be enjoyable for everyone concerned. Yes, even after Thaddeus. That was his nature, something Thaddeus not only was unable to understand, but was unwilling to put any effort into understanding. As Thaddeus had said when they were with Moriarty in the container, bringing John home to Brighton had been a matter of prestige and convenience, not desire. No, with Thaddeus it had been _head down, arse up_. Sherlock, on the other hand, had specifically asked - and oh, his kiss. John knee-shuffled a little closer, rocking his hips slowly against Sherlock's belly. God, the friction was delicious, and under other circumstances he would have been happy to go slow, but the inner tension was building and Jesus Christ why had he not removed his trousers so he could impale himself -

"John," breathed Sherlock, for once looking up at John, his eyes wide and wanting.

"Yeah?" asked John, sliding his fingers through Sherlock's curls. Sherlock slid his hands down John's back to his belt, drawing shivers from him. John just had to kiss him again for that. 

He lost track of time. Or rather, time became endless, stretched out in the wet slide of lip against lip, the tap of one tongue against the other, the ripe scent erupting between the two of them. John felt loose, pliable, adrift in a warm ocean with only Sherlock to cling to. 

"Enough!" Sherlock finally growled, rolling them over to lie on top of John. He shoved one hand between their bodies, trying to undo the button of John's jeans. "Why are you still wearing clothing?"

"I fell asleep reading my book. Fuck! Just - let me - " John pushed at Sherlock until he raised up enough for John to get both hands on his waistband. Mission accomplished, he started shoving them down his legs as much as he could until Sherlock took over, pulling them off and hurling them across the room. 

"Don't do that again," muttered Sherlock, pressing down too hard.

John spread his legs wider to accommodate the delicious grind. "What about you?" he managed to gasp. 

Sherlock bit him on the lip, not too hard, just enough of a reminder that he was in charge. Though John certainly intended to disabuse him of that notion and right quick. As soon as Sherlock rolled off of him, John followed, nibbling on his earlobe and reaching down to give him a firm squeeze and stroke while he kicked his pants off.

Once again John was on top of Sherlock's thighs. Sherlock kissed like he was trying to undo a padlock with his tongue, leaving John to try and get his own back with all the skill he possessed. Which was working, judging by Sherlock's vocalizations. Then Sherlock brought his hands down to John's bum and pulled sharply, forcing a grunt from John's throat. Sherlock squeezed both cheeks before grasping the back of John's neck to keep him in place. John simply could not stifle the moan that ended in an undignified squeal when Sherlock's other hand slipped into the cleft of his buttocks to circle his sopping arsehole. John broke free long enough to whimper, "Sherlock - " and then the finger was back, along with Sherlock's tongue in John's mouth.

Desperate, John gave himself a few strokes to relieve the ache in his prick. Sherlock pulled back a little to watch. John widened the gap between his legs, unable to stop undulating, close to begging, shame shoved to the back of his mind. Because that was the one thing that Thaddeus had loved about John - he had loved it when John begged. Thaddeus…best not to think of him now.

Maybe Sherlock had had enough, too. "Hands and knees, John."

Okay. Do not think about Thadddeus. Heart starting to pound, John did as asked, trying to relax and make things easier instead of fighting against the pressure of Sherlock's palm between his shoulder blades. 

He went down further, onto his forearms, set his mouth on his fist, just in case he needed to scream. And why did he feel like that all of a sudden? He was no longer in Brighton - he liked Sherlock - trusted him! Despite the roiling in his stomach, he took a deep breath, then another. Five in slow, six out slower. He shivered, this time from the chill in the room, which was cooling both his ardor and his sweat. 

"Alright?" asked Sherlock.

John nodded, feeling the blood drain from his fingertips, leaving his hands icy. A drop of sweat rolled down the tip of his nose to drip onto the sheet. He closed his eyes and waited. Waited while Sherlock ran both hands along his back, following with a shower of kisses down his spine. Fingers touched him between his buttocks, gently circled his anus, and then there was the first touch of something blunter, harder, hotter, against him, closer, closer - _there_. 

He thought he might vomit.

Instead of the forceful thrust John was expecting, Sherlock carefully tested him, made sure he was loose enough. He tried his best not to freeze, to make sure Sherlock knew he was willing. Yet Sherlock was an unknown element and John was frightened. For all he thought he trusted Sherlock, this, this - he was just going to have to deal with it. He could fall apart when his heat was over, whenever that might be. 

If he could he was going to be a participant instead of being an observer, because that was what Ella would want him to do. But he could feel himself drifting away, as if this was happening to another person altogether. 

Sherlock curled over him like a hot, naked blanket. In a gentle voice, he said, "Shh, you're fine. I'm not going to hurt you."

John wanted to believe that, he really did. 

Alphas were Alphas, however, and after Thaddeus he had done proper research and discovered a lot of myth and little truth. Unless, of course, the myth _was_ the truth, in which case he had a right to be anxious. He gasped again as Sherlock pressed slowly forward. Even with all the slick he was producing, the way was tight, and John winced more than once at the burn. When Sherlock was finally seated within, still half-curled over John, John released a breath so shaky even he could hear it.

"Okay?" Sherlock rumbled.

John nodded again, because he was not able to speak.

Sherlock began to move. That was…good. The fit was different from Thaddeus, better. Maybe because Sherlock had taken the time to warm John up. Funny, how being Variant had given him a whole new appreciation for women and their tolerance for little foreplay. If he ever had another chance to sleep with a woman, John was going to make sure she was drenched before he even thought of sex. 

_Stay in the present, Watson!_

John came back into himself a little more, even though he was still nauseous, let himself feel the burn beginning to fade, feel the strength of Sherlock's arms to either side of his shoulders. God, Sherlock's hands were huge, his forearms just the pleasant side of veiny. Then they disappeared as Sherlock changed position, grasping John's hips instead. John sucked in a breath, in great surprise subvocalized, "Oh shit!"

After that, he could not keep still. From the first slow thrust he was in agony, queer sensations running through his body, crawling on top of his skin like those itches that never seemed to be in the place you scratched. "Oh my god," he said, pushing up with his hands and then falling back to the mattress, only to clutch at the sheets. 

Sex had never been like this before. How could this be so different, just, what the hell? But really, who gave a shit, he only wanted Sherlock to continue what he was doing. Dare he reach between his belly and touch himself? If Sherlock turned out to be like Thaddeus, he could, he would have to go, have to run -

But then fear was forgotten amidst the sweetness skittering along his nerves. Maybe if he asked? "More -"

"I said I wouldn't hurt you," panted Sherlock, sounding a little strained.

"Yeah," agreed John, arching his back and oh god _yes there_. Fresh sweat poured down his face. He pushed back as Sherlock slammed forward and oh _shit!_ Each brush of his nipples against the sheet below him added to the tension, the oncoming threat of his orgasm. He was going to lose his mind, lose control, _Christ_ , anyone hearing him would think he was being tortured or murdered judging by the sounds coming out of his own goddamned mouth.

Again and again, with every thrust Sherlock made until the pulses coalesced and turned into one solid punch that lit John on fire from deep within -

\- Sherlock never stopped moving. The sweet relief of orgasm rapidly turned to pain. John dug his nails into the mattress and gritted his teeth, willing to wait it out because surely no one could last much longer? He grimaced, bit his lip - no, it was impossible, Sherlock was going to have to stop. Maybe Sherlock read his decision in his shoulders, for once again he curled around John, surprising him by cupping his genitals in one large hand.

And to John's very great surprise, Sherlock pulled on his spent cock. To his even greater shock, he stiffened almost immediately. "Fuck, stop, I can't - "

"You do it - " grunted Sherlock, straightening back up as soon as John shifted his weight. "Come on, John - "

It was awkward, but John managed to get one hand beneath himself, fingers sliding through semen slickened sheets. Pain streaked through his supporting shoulder only a few strokes in, forcing him back up. "I can't," he whined, pleasure ramping up and there was no way he could stand it, no, how was it possible? But Sherlock's thrusts were getting sloppy now, his prick even stiffer in John's arse. John arched his back again, trying to get Sherlock in just the right spot and _oh_ , there it was and he was babbling, he was howling, "No, oh no - no - I can't - oh god - _Sherl-!"_

John blearily opened his eyes. For one silent, still moment, he had no idea where he was, or what he was doing. Memory spiked a millisecond later; _he was having sex with Sherlock!_

Sherlock, who slammed into him once, twice, heaved and stilled and groaned. He slumped on top of John, breathing heavily, hips still jerking erratically before stopping altogether. As much as John enjoyed the fully body contact, Sherlock was bloody heavy. 

Then Sherlock rolled to one side, leaving a trail of wetness along the crease where John's buttock met his thigh. John rested his head on his hands to look at Sherlock. A full body shiver took him by surprise, a frisson of pleasure richocheting through him the way only really outstanding orgasms could. A little sound escaped him, and when he opened his eyes again, Sherlock was staring at him. "What?"

Sherlock frowned, opened his mouth to speak, yet no words left his mouth. Well, that had to be a good sign, right? John stretched, not yet ready to face a change of the sheets before the next round. God, if sex with Thaddeus had been anything like this from the start, he might not ever have left. Or at least he would think of Thaddeus with…less dislike. What he needed now was a drink. He started to get up, stopped at Sherlock's tight grip on his wrist.

"Where are you going?" asked Sherlock, his voice hoarse.

"Just to get some water. You want some?" answered John. What the hell was going on inside Sherlock's brain? Because he was clearly perturbed by something or another. Surely that great big brain of his turned off during sex?

"No! No, you stay here, I'll get the water."

John watched Sherlock practically leap out of the bed and out of the room, stark naked as he had no worries about being disturbed. Of course, he was probably right. It was late at night - early morning - and anyone who might have overheard and had a nose would know _exactly_ what was happening. Even Mrs. Hudson's 'herbal soothers' would be hard-pressed to keep her asleep. 

That brought him right back to Brighton, and he grimaced in new-found embarrassment at the knowledge that everyone would have heard Thaddeus' shenanigans. How the hell had Peter been able to stand being in the same room as him? John rolled out of the wet spot, grabbing a bit of loose sheet to wipe at himself at the same time. What kind of fucked up biology made human reproduction so damned awful? Or maybe it was just all the societal rules heaped upon Alphas and Omegas that make it difficult.

"Stop it," Sherlock muttered, holding two tumblers of ice water. He put one on the nightstand on his side of the bed, handed the other to John. "I could hear you thinking all the way out to the living room. They won't make a bit of difference to the here and now."

John sat up, reaching down the side of the bed and reflexively covering his lap with the rest of the sheet. He gulped down half the glass of water before putting the glass down on his nightstand. Sherlock's nightstand. Whatever. Which reminded him. "Am I sleeping here now?"

The question provoked another frown. Which John took as a 'no'. Which was good. He loved having his own room.

Sherlock laid down again on his back, and John followed without invitation because he was awake and alive and so was Sherlock and Ella had said to reward himself every time he stopped a panic attack in its tracks. And he had yet to pick his reward. He kissed Sherlock thoroughly, cupping his cheek with one hand to make sure he could not get away until John was done. When he eventually pulled back, Sherlock's lips were thoroughly swollen, his gaze soft with desire. John reached down to feel if Sherlock was ready for another go. He was, and there was no getting past it this time; John had to be on top, a position he had never experienced with another man. Once more he slung one leg across Sherlock's thighs, inching up a little bit until he was in the right position. "Is this alright?"

It was indeed alright. If anything, a bit slower. John liked Sherlock's hands on him, the way he looked John, as if John were some sort of miracle Sherlock had stumbled upon in a back alley. That was okay, John was honest enough with himself to admit he felt the same way about Sherlock.

Later on, hunger drove them from the bedroom to the kitchen. At three in the morning they ate a meal of toast, eggs, sausage, grilled tomato. John made a salad and ate that too, while Sherlock scoffed at John's suggestion that salad leaves provided the extra minerals and vitamins he was going to need in order to keep his strength up.

"You're being ridiculous."

John shrugged, swallowed the last mouthful. "It makes me feel better."

"Oh!" Sherlock threw his hands up and stalked to his desk to fiddle with a bit of paper or another, the end of his bathrobe streaming out behind him as if he were some demented superhero.

Grinning, John kept his head down and mopped up the last bit of egg yolk with the remaining crust of toast from Sherlock' plate. Delicious. One more cup of tea and then…then he would see what the rest of the night held. 

Which turned out to be telly. One of those Poker championships on Dave. That was fine, it was all fine. John was happy to rest and digest while he could. He was not going to be in heat for very much longer, anyway. He felt calmer, less on edge, ready to resume his normal schedule of…running around investigating things with his mad husband. Sherlock still looked like a Greek God to John's eyes - he had a feeling Sherlock was always going to look like that, no matter what stage of heat John was in. 

When John grew tired of Sherlock's deductions about the game(honestly, only a few hands had to pass), he distracted him with a hand job. He would have attempted to get his mouth around Sherlock's prick, but by then they were on their knees facing one another, at least until Sherlock got his hands on the backs of John's thighs, lifting him and then tossing him onto his back. The air whooshed out of his lungs. "Okay, yeah," John breathed, surprised as all hell. "You can pick me up."

Another round of unbelievable sex which had John sobbing his pleasure into Sherlock's shoulder.

Afterward, they slept.

Coffee. It smelled strong, and more importantly, it was somewhere nearby. Cracking open one eye, John was happy to see his suspicions confirmed - a steaming mug of goodness was on top of the nightstand next to the bed. John stretched, rolled over with his arms still above his head. God. He felt good. Exhausted and sore, but also happy and incredibly content. Even the sun was shining, brightening the room through the sheers on the other side of the blackout curtains. If this was going to be the rest of his life, so be it. But really, coffee. There was a splash of milk in it, and when he rolled onto his side to take a cautious sip, yes, a single teaspoon of sugar.

Bloody _fantastic._

In a roiling cloud of herbally scented steam, Sherlock burst out of the bathroom with a towel slung low about his hips, wet hair a tousled mess. John watched him go to the wardrobe, flick through his shirts. He plucked one out, a dark aubergine affair that nicely matched the bites John had left on his shoulders only a few hours earlier. Putting his coffee back on the table, John said, "Come here."

Sherlock hesitated before slowly approaching the bed, and a rush of affection surged through John. Sherlock might be the most intelligent person John had ever known, but his interpersonal skills were another matter entirely. John guessed that any prior relationships Sherlock might have had had been exploitative at best, abusive at worst. Well, John knew all about that.

John grabbed Sherlock by the hand and sat up while at the same time pulling Sherlock down. He leaned up to whisper into Sherlock's ear, "I'm really looking forward to my next heat."

At Sherlock's wide-eyed stare, for the first time John felt a little unsure. He _had_ to be right, though, there was no way any one could fake the kind of enjoyment brought with good sex with another person, not even the great Sherlock Holmes. For God's sake, the man had made him perfect coffee! On the other hand, perhaps he should make sure? "Was it good? For you? Sherlock?"

Sherlock blinked hard at John several times, his face impassive. They were so close John could see his nostrils flare minutely.

"Yes, John. _God_ , yes!"

From there it was easy enough to pull him down further, to fall back and let Sherlock collapse on top, to kiss the life out of one another. 

A minute later Sherlock pulled up, frowning. He licked his lips, tentatively said, "John…as much as I am interested in continuing, I, I don't think I can."

John stared at him dumbly before catching on. He chuckled, flicked a droplet of water from one wet curl of hair. "My heat's over, there's no rush. Besides, unless you have lube in one of these drawers, my arse is off limits."

"We will, though? Again?" murmured Sherlock, lowering his head to snuffle the crook of John's neck.

"Mm-hmm."

"John."

"Hmm."

"John?"

"Hmm?" John opened his eyes, twisted to look at Sherlock. "What?" 

At Sherlock's shy glance away, he repeated himself. "Sherlock, what? What did you want to ask me? Don't make me guess, you know I'm rubbish at guessing."

"Can I, next time, can we - ?"

Ordinarily he would revel in a speechless Sherlock, yet John could not find it in himself to gloat that he had made the great Sherlock Holmes silent. "What?"

Sherlock slid off, kept his face at John's neck. He lightly sank his teeth into John's shoulder."I want to knot you. Bond."

John flushed hot. Oh. Right. In truth, he had forgotten all about the bond. Thaddeus… _fuck_ Thaddeus! Fuck him and his goddamned ideas and the things he had done to John! This was John's life, now, Thaddeus had no place in it! He had never belonged to Thaddeus, no. He had been legally owned by the man, but his spirit had always been free. Did he even have to think about it, bonding with Sherlock? He thought about the past week, everything he had been through, and came up with only one answer. "Yes, yes, of course."

As the words came out of his mouth he realized that actually, yes, bonding with Sherlock was something he absolutely wanted to do. Relief swept over him, tempered by caution. He was not ordinarily a hasty man. Yes, he loved danger, was an adrenaline junkie in some ways, but he was not reckless. He liked knowing the facts before attempting something new - or at least surety in his own skills. If he were in session with Ella, he knew exactly what look she would give him; the lightly creased brows of concern, the downturned mouth, the scribbling in her notebook, the tense set of her shoulders. 

No doubt she would suggest that really good sex was not a substitute for knowing someone, yet what had the past week shown him but all of Sherlock's flaws? The man was snide, obstreperous, ruthless in his search for the truth, oddly moral, frequently cruel. He wore suits like some men wore jeans, had expensive tastes which John could never hope to match. Sherlock, however, was also kind - in his own way. He paid attention to John when John least expected it, and apparently found John to be of great help in his work. The way John looked at it, even if Sherlock was the very worst person in the world, he was still a far better bet than Thaddeus had ever been on his best day.

He had even offered John a surrogate, if John decided he wanted children. He had brought John to see Dariush. He had bought John a phone, and he had his own cash card. His parents, the very picture of old fashioned Englishness, had taken to John, or at least if they had not, had hidden it well. Mycroft had been exceptionally pleased with himself, much to Sherlock's obvious chagrin. 

So…yeah. But - "Are you sure?"

Sherlock sighed heavily, propped his head up on his hand. "Do you really think I would have asked if I were not?"

Well…no. John wondered if really good sex might have, oh, twisted Sherlock's feelings, made them…but that implied Sherlock might regret - no, no. No. _Stop thinking, Watson!_ At Sherlock's withering glare, John shrugged. Fuck it, he only had one life to live, he would take it on faith. "Alright then, next time."

"Whenever that is."

John nodded. "Whenever that is."

A bright little smile appeared on Sherlock's face, and he dipped down to peck John on the cheek before bounding off the bed. "Get showered and dressed, we're meeting Lestrade at Barts at ten."

John scrambled out from under the covers. "Again? I thought we were done with Dariush."

"No, we have research to do."

"Not before I've had the rest of my coffee," said John, grabbing the cup on his way to the bathroom. Just before he closed the door, he called out, "And toast wouldn't go amiss!"

**Author's Note:**

> The Playlist! In case you didn't play it at the link, this is a selection of music that I thought would fit the sexy times. The styles range from downtempo electronica to acid jazz to whatever it is Layo & Bushwacka! do. Unbelievably, like [The Avalanches](http://youtu.be/wpqm-05R2Jk) and [Koop](http://youtu.be/Ji0xDg6EVvI), Lemon Jelly's [music](http://youtu.be/KXDtQcuA5Bo) is entirely composed of samples. If you want to check out DJ Krush, listen to Zen - it's amazing.
> 
> Anyway, I like this playlist, and I hope you do, too.
> 
> Connect.Ohm - [Snow Park](http://youtu.be/yRfGG9XxJ3Y)  
> DJ Krush - [Song 1](http://youtu.be/bj3y5vFS3Es)  
> Lemon Jelly - [The Curse of Ka'azar](http://youtu.be/i88Zltq_AnQ)  
> Layo & Bushwacka! - [Blind Tiger](http://youtu.be/d0USyibyuQE)  
> DJ Krush & Toshinori Kondo - [Toh-Sui](http://youtu.be/k1NqI1Z9oEw)  
> Ark Patrol - [Never](http://youtu.be/eZEeLjZ_pJc)
> 
> Oh, did I forget to mention there's an epilogue...?


End file.
